


How to Survive Promotion in the Middle Ages

by themadlurker



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 80,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themadlurker/pseuds/themadlurker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King is dead; long live the King. Arthur sits on the throne of Camelot, but everyone - including him - is still waiting to find out what sort of a king he will be. If he fails, there are plenty of other people who wouldn't mind stepping up to fill his shoes - particularly Morgana, who has had her eye on the throne since Uther's death. In the meantime, there are these negotiations with Northumbria to deal with; one of his best knights has gone missing; and, oh yes, someone at the court of Camelot may be trying to kill him. It's a good thing that Gwen and Merlin have got his back. Well, most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as part of Nanowrimo in November 2010. Since series three was still airing at that point, **this fic goes AU around episode 3x10** , and doesn't reflect any canon events from then on.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful betas, [sophinisba](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba), [vensre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vensre), and [kaizoku](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaizoku/), who did valiant battle against run-on sentences, plot holes, and dangerously spicy semi-colons, to make this fic presentable. I couldn't've done it without you guys. ♥

" _MERLIN!!!_ "

The shout echoed throughout the Great Hall of Camelot, magnified by the ancient, vaulted ceilings. The Hall itself was more ancient than any of its current occupants, older even than the castle itself. Before the Pendragons had lived at Camelot, there had been a castle, and before the castle, there had been a Hall, built by one of a handful of feuding warlords, their names now lost to the centuries. The Hall remained, still broad enough and long to house an entire army of one of the kings of old, if they each took their place at one of the mead benches along the walls and slept on pallets of straw laid out across the floor.

The ancient and venerable Hall had never before been so crowded that its occupants could barely move. Those who could manage it had confined themselves to skirting the very edges of the hall, where the tables usually laid out for a feast had been pushed aside so near the wall that there was no space to pass by them or, at least, not while anyone was sitting at them. Since many of the courtiers tended to gravitate towards the Great Hall soon after breakfast on any day when a major feast was to be held, this had been causing a certain amount of traffic congestion all morning.

Baffled servants, attempting to bring platters of food into the Hall for the midday meal, had become trapped in the empty corners of the room and were reduced to sliding the dishes as far along the tables as they could reach and relying optimistically on the hungry courtiers to pass along the bounty when new dishes made their way out of the kitchens.

Overall, the room was a perfect illustration of why, although trying to fit a square peg into a round hole may be the most fruitless exercise known to mankind, trying to fit a round table into a rectangular hall comes pretty close.

The high table, set aside for King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, and their most trusted knights and retainers, stood empty. It was at the far end of the hall from the great main doors, which on the one hand meant that it was one of the few parts of the room free of excess table, but on the other hand meant that no one — say, for example, the King and Queen — could get to it via the main doors.

As King Arthur had just discovered.

The table must have appeared, as far as anyone could guess, sometime between the last watch and when the servants came in to set out the tables for the midday meal. In that time, however, no one had thought to inform the King about the rearrangement. Or perhaps no one had wanted to be the one to tell him. Either way, the first hint Arthur got that anything was amiss was when he walked into the Hall in deep conversation with Gwen and ran bang up against the problem. Literally.

No one in the Hall that morning knew how the new table had got there, and Arthur was no exception. He did, however, have a keenly developed instinct for these sorts of occurrences, honed by years of finding his odd socks balled up and stuffed into the quiver for his hunting arrows. Usually he didn't know what was going on until he was standing in the middle of the forest with only one sock on and an arrow that wouldn't unstick itself from the quiver until he gave it a mighty yank and hit Sir Leon in the face with an unexpected projectile of woolen footwear. And so he did what he had always done on such occasions, which was to shout "Merlin!" angrily at the top of his lungs because somewhere, somehow, Merlin was going to be involved.

It was one of the sadly mysterious aspects of his life: whatever the trouble was, Merlin would either turn out to be at the bottom of it or to be the only person who could fix it — which was usually because he was at the bottom of it.

Beside him, Guinevere winced at the volume of the shout, and the rest of the court of Camelot collectively edged away — so far as they could, given the space constraints — from their discontented sovereign.

A voice just behind Arthur's elbow said, "Yes?" quietly and the King tried to jump about a foot in the air in his surprise. Since there was no space for this sort of thing, he banged his shins hard against the table. Again.

Guinevere, who in her short time as Queen of Camelot had already developed some of the grace and dignity befitting her status, managed not to giggle too loudly. Arthur did his best to pretend she hadn't giggled at all.

She followed the not-quite-giggle with a look of concern and asked if he was all right with a suitable amount of sympathy and a minimum of mirth. Even more importantly, she didn't make any comments about the great King Arthur being engaged in single combat with a table, even though Arthur could see a sparkle in her eye that told him she could think of half a dozen things to say on the topic if she chose. That was the wonderful thing about Guinevere, really. She understood him. She waited to make embarrassing observations until after they were no longer in public.

Some people weren't so considerate.

"Oh good, you found it," said Merlin, while Arthur tried not to hop around in pain and wondered whether drawing his sword against a piece of furniture would be seen as a gross over-reaction.

"Are you telling me," said Arthur slowly and ominously, "that you know something about this —" he searched for an appropriate epithet. "Monstrosity" seemed about right, although perhaps a bit of an over-reaction for someone who had fought actual monsters.

"Yep!" Merlin announced cheerfully. "No, there's no need to thank me. Happy one month anniversary, you two, you deserve it."

Arthur spluttered. "Thank you!" he exclaimed incredulously.

"You're welcome!" Merlin beamed.

"What do you — you mean _you_ — aagh!" said Arthur and then retreated into silent, internal gibbering.

An old familiar impulse moved him to direct some friendly violence against Merlin's person, possibly a good thwap to the back of the head, but he was sadly restrained by the presence of most of his nobles, who had stopped milling around jockeying for space at the trestle tables in favour of watching the scene. Arthur couldn't very well begin strangling his councillors openly at court; it was the sort of thing that might make his people nervous about their new king.

Arthur wished, and not for the first time, that he had never elevated Merlin to his new post. No one cared if the king happened to trip and shove a servant's head into a soup bowl at dinner, but they looked askance at abuse of the upper orders. This more than anything convinced him that there was something wrong with the degree of emphasis Camelot laid on the social orders.

* * *

"I don't know what to say," said Gwen into the awkward hush that had fallen over the Great Hall. "It's very... nice, Merlin. Thank you."

She turned to her side for help, but Arthur seemed to have used up his capacity for speech. No doubt he could have come up with any number of choice words if he hadn't been surrounded by any number of courtiers and imbued with a young and fledgling aura of majesty. He could hardly pick up his royal goblet and fling it at Merlin's head in front of company. He managed a few indistinct gurgles that could have been approval or could, equally, have been the first murmurings of a discontented digestive system. After that, Gwen was on her own.

"It's very big," she added in desperation, trying to make it sound like a good thing. "And very... round. It's a very circular circle. Really, it's a very nice, big, round table. Er."

She was babbling and perfectly aware of every pair of expectant eyes watching her. It was all very well to babble when you were a lady's maid, or even when you became a minor lady at court; Gwen had made very definite plans, however, not to become known as the babbling queen, and here was Merlin, upsetting it all.

If it were anyone but Merlin, she wouldn't be having this problem. No doubt if this had been one more in the parade of bizarre wedding gifts she and Arthur had received, the royal couple, new as they were at giving receptions, could have met it with a polite and noncommittal, "How very kind, thank you for your good wishes." The strangest had been a long, multi-pronged metal instrument that Gwen, for all her years of familiarity with the blacksmith's forge, had never seen the like of. Gwen and Arthur had later speculated privately on what its intended function was, but at the time simply thanked the lord of Essex kindly and despatched it discreetly to the castle kitchens to see if they could use it as some kind of a roasting spit.

The table, though, wasn't simply one more unusual gift; it was a gift from _Merlin_ , and he was watching the pair of them with an eager, hopeful look, as if he were a dog that had triumphally deposited a dead rabbit at its master's feet. If Gwen couldn't find something to say about it, he'd probably catch on and then he'd mope about it and Gwen would feel guilty and a bad friend.

"What a... surprise," she tried, without specifying the type of surprise. That, at least, was honest. She and Arthur had agreed that they probably weren't going to be receiving a wedding gift from Merlin, unless it was something like a stuffed chicken clearly stolen from the castle kitchens or a bunch of wildflowers for Gwen.

True, Merlin _had_ told them he was working on a big wedding gift that was taking a bit longer than expected, but Arthur took this to mean that he'd forgotten the date of their wedding, while Gwen more charitably assumed Merlin had accidentally set his intended gift on fire. Either way, they hadn't been expecting to come into the great hall one morning and find their courtiers nervously edging around a giant wooden table that took up most of the room.

"Why don't we all sit down?" she suggested at last, out of desperation.

She caught the attention of the castle steward, who was standing by with a grave, deferential look that made Gwen suspect he was snickering on the inside. The man's apparant seriousness was usually in direct proportion to the degree of silliness he was having to ignore from his masters. Gwen managed to indicate to him that the smaller tables should be removed for now to make space, and the general silence resolved itself into a chaos of grinding table legs against the stone floor and complaints as nobles stepped on each other's feet trying to move out of the way. Then the old tables were gone and their load transferred to the new one and there was room again — almost — to breathe.

She took Arthur's arm as they made their way at last to their accustomed seats at the far end of the Hall and walked closely by him so that no one else would notice that the King was still limping slightly from his brief battle with a stationary piece of wood.

Merlin trailed after them seeming blissfully oblivious to all the trouble he had caused and took the seat on Gwen's left hand. He had originally taken his place there shortly after Gwen's marriage, once her brother had left the court and she wanted a friendly face nearby. Their heads often bent together at a feast in a private joke, and now the position prevented Arthur from glaring at him, in case anyone — particularly Gwen herself — might think he was directing the glare at her as well.

Technically, Merlin should have been nearer to Arthur, since he was one of his councillors, even though the appointment had been as much Gwen's idea as his. Arthur had been lamenting the poor quality of the noble candidates available for his privy council and joked that even Merlin would be an improvement on some of these second sons of obscure barons who were being foisted on him. Merlin had said that the King must be desperate if he was willing to admit to Merlin's superiority and the two of them had laughed about it while Merlin brushed at a pair of boots.

They were sitting in Arthur's chambers at the time, Gwen curled up in a chair by the fire doing some plainwork that should properly have been left to her own maid but that she couldn't bring herself to let go of. There was something comfortable and familiar about the old habit, just as there was to spending a quiet evening with Merlin while they both worked away at their servants' duties — even though one of them was no longer a servant. It was the reason Merlin was sitting on the hearth in the King's private chamber, cleaning the royal boots where they lay rather than spiriting them away to be tended to invisibly in the servants' quarters and brought back cleaned as if by magic. Arthur had merely rolled his eyes at the informality of the situation and told Merlin to try not to make more of a mess than he'd started with.

"Why not?" Gwen said, so long after the topic had passed that the other two looked at her in confusion.

"Why not make Merlin a councillor?" she elaborated. "He already does the job, unofficially, better than most of the nobles at court, and you can't say there isn't a precedent." She grew flustered under their twin stares as she added, "I mean, if one servant can become Queen, why can't another sit on the privy council?"

The point that finally convinced Arthur, however, seemed to be that if Merlin _was_ appointed to the council, he would have to sit through the same long, tedious council meetings and — more importantly — would have to do so wearing a set of official councillor's robes whose design, Arthur was delighted to discover when he consulted Geoffrey of Monmouth on the topic, was even more ridiculous than that of the official servant's hat that Merlin had conveniently lost, found in a second-floor privy, lost, burned, unsuccessfully attempted to feed to wild animals, recovered in pieces and finally buried in an unknown location in the north country.

In the long and tedious hours of state governance that Arthur anticipated enduring, it was a small comfort to think of being able to watch Merlin struggle under his bright blue and overlong robes and a very large, soft, pointed hat that rested primarily on his ears and frequently dropped down to cover his face entirely. Of course, the robes were a formality that did not need to be observed except on official occasions, but Arthur had so far managed to keep this a secret from Merlin.

And so Merlin was made Lord of the Royal Bedchamber and Protector of the King's Person, provided with the title to a very swampy and midge-infested plot of land that nobody else wanted, and given the respect and acknowledgment due to his many years of faithful service.

Admittedly, a large part of the reward for that service consisted of making Merlin wear a very silly pointed hat, but it had, after all, been intended as a reward in kind.

It was one of those things that had seemed like a good idea at the time. If Gwen could interpret Arthur's thunderous expression, though, the King was currently wishing that he didn't have to consider Merlin's new social status as a barrier to yelling and/or throwing things at him from the dinner table.

On Arthur's right, Sir Leon offered some remark about the situation of Camelot's grain stores. Arthur took up the topic, and the assembly drew a collective breath of relief as informal conversation began and so, at last, did the day's feasting.

When there was enough conversation to cover what he said, Merlin leaned in to say in Gwen's ear, "How annoyed would you say he is, on a scale of 'throwing rotten tomatoes' to 'my secret half sister is leading an army against me on the day of my father's funeral'?"

"That's _not funny_ , Merlin," Gwen replied under her breath, managing to keep up a very solemn expression. She should have known that Merlin wasn't as innocent in the matter as he was pretending. "Your timing is terrible. You know how worried he is about the delegation from Northumbria."

"If they're going to support Morgana anyway, I don't know why he's even letting them come here," Merlin muttered under his breath.

He stabbed viciously at a piece of meat on his plate, sending it unfortunately catapulting into the breast of the young Sir Bors' tunic. Sir Bors, who hadn't been paying attention, peered down at it in some bewilderment before shrugging, resigned to the mystery, and removing it to his plate.

Gwen prodded Merlin beneath the table to restrain his silent snickering. "Arthur can't just refuse to see his father's old allies, it would look like he was betraying ties of fealty —"

"— or like he was afraid of a knife in the back," Merlin muttered, adding, "which he should be. There's enough people coming in the delegation to hide a dozen assassins, you do know that, don't you?"

Gwen bit her lip and stared down hard at the plate in front of her. "Of course I see that, I wish I didn't, but.... but he can't let that stop him doing the right thing. And the right thing has to be to try to keep the peace, hasn't it? If he didn't let them come — if he didn't at least try, he wouldn't be Arthur, would he?"

They both turned to look at the king, who noticed their joint gaze just as he was putting a piece of chicken in his mouth. He lowered it hastily and surreptitiously checked his reflection in his goblet in case there was something on his face or dripping down his front. He found nothing, but continued to dart suspicious glances over at them. Gwen merely smiled at him, sweetly and disarmingly, and he turned back to the discussion of land tax rates with the mildly uncomfortable certainty of someone who knows he is being talked about, but doesn't know what is being said.

"By the way," Gwen said over her shoulder to Merlin, "if I were to suggest that the servants move this table out of the way for a while, how exactly would that work?"

"It might not — technically — be possible," Merlin admitted. "But, uh, I could probably get it out of the way before the delegation arrives, if that's what you want."

"I hope you didn't go to all this trouble just to annoy Arthur," said Gwen. "I'm sure your heart's in the right place, Merlin, but it's a little extreme."

Merlin gave her an open, guileless look that she didn't entirely trust. "Honestly, Gwen," he said, "it's a wedding present. It's important, you know. Symbolically."

"Of what, exactly?" Gwen asked sceptically, who knew well enough that "symbolically" could mean "symbolic of my ongoing quest to annoy Arthur."

"I'm not sure yet," Merlin admitted. "It was just one of those things that... you know how sometimes things happen because they had to happen, so you have to do them so they'll have happened, even though you don't know why?"

Gwen just stared at him.

"Never mind," said Merlin hastily. "It was just something I had a feeling about. I can move it out of the way until you're ready to use it. But you will be, someday."

Gwen caught the guilt in his look and sighed. "This is going to be another one of those things, isn't it?" she asked him. "Something I'm going to have to forget about so that I don't have to tell my husband, the King, that one of his most trusted advisors was flouting the laws of Camelot underneath his very nose."

Merlin grinned back at her unrepentantly. "Something like that," he said.

"Then I don't want to know," Gwen said decisively. "Just promise me you don't have any more surprises in mind for this week?"

Merlin smiled without much conviction. "Er..."

" _Merlin!_ "

"It's all right, it's a good thing, I promise," Merlin said hastily. "You remember Lancelot, right?"

Gwen's hand suddenly fumbled and knocked into her glass, which wavered but implausibly righted itself before it could tip over and spill.

Merlin, ignoring her carelessness with impeccable obliviousness, beamed. "I know Arthur was going to send messengers, but it was so easy for me to go — and now he can be here within the week! Isn't that good news?"

"Right," Gwen said, a little choked, "of course, how wonderful."

* * *

The woods that bordered Camelot were known for their seemingly inexhaustable supply of villains, brigands, and assorted bandits who could usually be relied upon to provide some form of diversion for the passing travellers. Passing through them on his way to the border, Lancelot was finding his path strangely quiet and peaceable. It was not that he was hoping to be ambushed, as such, but he would have welcomed a little hearty physical activity as distraction from his thoughts.

Since the forest had so far failed to supply, he rode on uninterrupted at an easy pace along the path that would eventually take him, after much meandering, out of the woods and across the fields to the castle. By the end of the day's ride, even allowing for casual banditry and a certain amount of dragging his heels, Lancelot would be once more within the boundaries of that kingdom in which he had not set foot for almost four years. He had felt a sense of keen anticipation when he first set out on the long road back, but since then his confidence had waned. It was not so much that he doubted his reception at Arthur's court; he trusted implicitly in Merlin's message of welcome. It was more that he wondered how much he had glorified those few short weeks he had spent at Camelot when compared with years of lonely travels and unhallowed quests.

There was also a bitter taste in his mouth, much as he tried to ignore it, from the news that Camelot had a new queen. He could not tell himself that this was a surprise, not after even the short time that he had observed Arthur and Guinevere together, all those years ago, but the idea that he had done the honourable thing by stepping aside had never been so unwelcome. He had allowed himself to imagine, as one does when the ground one sleeps on is hard and unyielding and the road is empty of company, the pragmatic choices a prince might be forced to make with regards to marriage, and how sweet it might be to find Gwen still waiting, unwed, hoping for his return...

It was a foolish fancy and one he meant to forget before he passed through the castle gates again, but he couldn't help lingering just a little along the way, as if that faint and slender hope could yet be maintained so long as he did not see her or witness their happiness with his own eyes.

Lancelot was rudely awakened from his wishful thinking by a piercing cry farther along the road and he spurred his mount on to reach the source of the noise. This was the adventure one expected to find.

In a clearing — no more than a bare patch of dirt by the side of the road — a knight in armour with a jet black tunic over his mail held a young woman, much smaller than himself, in a tight grasp and seemed to be dragging her towards his horse. She was struggling and protesting this treatment vociferously but without much effect.

The knight had the young woman by the waist, locked beneath his arm, but as Lancelot approached she wriggled out, directing a wallop at his chest. The stroke bounced harmlessly off his armour and she uttered a very unladylike expression over her injured hand. The knight took the opportunity to reestablish his grip and this time brought his arm to bear against her throat. Her struggles against it rendered her briefly silent and Lancelot feared that in a moment she would faint.

"Hold, sir!" Lancelot cried as he reached them, drawing his sword and levelling it at the unfamiliar knight. "Unhand that lady at once, or I will teach you better manners."

The knight turned with some surprise to face him and drew his sword. As he did, his grip must have slackened slightly, for the lady, finding her breath again, swore colourfully and stomped on the black knight's foot. Her captor yowled, but held all the more insistently as she struggled against him.

Lancelot brought his sword to bear as near the offending knight as he could without endangering the lady. "You will face me in combat, sir, or I will —"

Whatever he would have said was lost in a loud clang, as the unknown knight's sword dropped from his suddenly limp fingers, the rest of him following a moment later. With the knight's bulk out of the way, there was another figure visible behind him, this one attired more simply, and wielding a broken-off piece of tree branch.

"What a lot of people fail to take into account when they consider helmets," said the figure, "is that that much metal slamming into your head is as bad as four pints of ale on an empty stomach. It's got a bit of a kick." The interloper looked up at Lancelot with a grin.

He wore no armour, although he carried a sword in his other hand, and he looked as though he had just rolled out of a hayloft or a pile of leaves. A piece of unidentifiable vegetation still stuck out of his dark and tousled hair.

"An honourable man would not have struck unseen from behind," Lancelot pointed out, sheathing his sword unused.

"An honourable man wouldn't have been cavorting around in the forest with kidnapped maidens," the stranger pointed out with irritating justice. "However, if I have in any way inconvenienced you by rescuing your lady..."

"I'm not _his_ lady," the girl protested at the same time that Lancelot exclaimed, "She's not _my_ lady!"

The two looked at each other in surprise and the girl added, "but you don't need to sound so offended by the idea."

"I merely meant that she is as much a stranger to me as you are," Lancelot clarified. "That was not the reason for my rescue."

"I think you'll find I was the one who did the rescuing," the man said. " _You_ were just the decoy."

"If you two don't mind," the girl said a bit waspishly, "I was quite capable of rescuing myself."

"My apologies, my lady," the other man said, sketching out a mock bow. "Would you like us to tie you up or perhaps revive the gentleman in black so you can do the honours yourself?"

She looked him up and down assessingly. "You look too much like you might enjoy it."

Lancelot, seeing the chance to extend the proper courtesy, offered, "I assure you, my lady, that you will be brought to no harm."

"I should hope not," she huffed. "Do you have any idea who my father is?"

"I'm sorry, my lady, I do not — I do not know your name," Lancelot said apologetically.

"No, of course you don't, why should you? You obviously don't move in the right circles and I have no intention of introducing myself to a couple of forest ruffians." She prodded the still-unconscious knight with the toe of her shoe. "I don't know what's become of this kingdom, but at least under Uther's reign there was some sort of _order_ along our borders. If one was going to be ambushed, one could be sure of its being by someone of good _class_ at least."

She gave her abductor a final, futile kick, then stormed off towards the road. Lancelot felt he should really offer to escort her to safety, but was less sure that he could guarantee his own safety if he did.

The stranger, perhaps catching his conflicted expression said, "Just wait a moment."

Lancelot, bewildered, watched as the girl disappeared around a bend in the road and was concealed from sight by the trees. He turned to ask his companion what he had meant, but found him holding up a hand for silence. Another moment later, the girl reappeared, her head still held high, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the fact that one of her shoes was broken.

She tried to keep her eyes somewhere on the road over Lancelot's left shoulder when she spoke as if asking a casual question, "Is this the road to Camelot?"

Before Lancelot could answer, the other man interjected, "I think you'll find your horse tied up about half a mile along the way, just where the road forks towards the east."

The girl jerked her head in what could, at a stretch, have been polite acknowledgement.

Lancelot forced himself to say, "If you require an escort, I am bound for Camelot as well."

She stared at him in astonishment, as if the very suggestion was a new indignity. "Who said anything about going to Camelot? What would I want to do there? Papa says now the King's gone and married himself off there's no point any of the noble families visiting unless they're hoping to get in the middle of some sort of ghastly civil war."

Lancelot frowned with concern. "I had not heard any news of civil war. Surely there can be no question left about the succession now?"

The girl shrugged with a complete lack of interest. "I don't know if there's a question about anything, but there is an army in the north that Papa says is going to support the Lady Morgana if she comes to claim the throne. It wouldn't really be changing the succession at all if the King was dead, anyway, would it?" She took a few steps along her way, then paused to narrow her eyes at the two of them. "Don't try to follow me," she commanded.

Lancelot, relieved of the need to place chivalry over his own preference for travelling companions, happily obeyed. He offered a bland smile to his fellow rescuer, who seemed to take it as an opening for small talk.

"So, what's your story, then?" he asked Lancelot conversationally. "You're headed to King Arthur's court as well?"

"I was... forced to leave the court while the late King Uther reigned. Now that his son is king I have come back to take my place by his side."

The other man frowned. " _I_ was banished by Uther from the kingdom of Camelot," he said, eyeing Lancelot suspiciously as if he could have anticipated the story, "and was forbidden to return until his son took his place on the throne and I could return to fight by his side."

Lancelot fought down a very unconstructive instinct to protest that he thought _he_ had probably been banished by Uther _first_ , because banishment wasn't something he generally liked to brag about. Instead he pointed out, "We are probably not the only ones hoping to find a better welcome in the new king's court."

The man laughed. "Uther certainly knew how to make enemies out of potential allies, if that's what you mean. Oh well, we former exiles will simply have to stick together. I'm Gwaine," he said, proffering his hand to shake.

Lancelot took it and did his best to smile in a friendly manner. "Lancelot," he said. And then it occurred to him to wonder how many more times he would introduce himself like that. If Arthur's promise held true, he might soon be Sir Lancelot, a knight of Camelot once more. The thought warmed him and his smile grew to a more genuine one without his permission.

Gwaine vanished briefly, producing a horse from a spot at the edge of the clearing where dense foliage had so far served to conceal it, and then joined Lancelot.

"What about him?" Lancelot gestured to the knight in black who was just beginning to groan and stir.

Gwaine mounted without a backwards glance and merely spurred his horse onwards. "People who use their horses to abduct young women in the forest don't deserve to keep them," he said, misinterpreting the source of Lancelot's concern.

"But shouldn't we bring him before the king for judgment?" asked Lancelot, concerned by this cavalier attitude toward justice.

"And if he turns out to be the son of some important noble who the king can't afford to offend?" Gwaine asked. When Lancelot didn't answer, he added, "Have heart, he could still fall down into a ditch during the night and decide not to come out to trouble anyone again."

Lancelot, still unsatisfied that the course of action was right, but not prepared to carry the knight behind him all the way to Camelot, went along with Gwaine, leaving the knight to his own fortune.

Now that he had a travelling companion, Lancelot decided with the perversity of hindsight that he would have preferred to be left alone with his thoughts. Whenever two people are thrown together while travelling in the same direction along the same road, there is the awkward and inevitable necessity of small talk. Lancelot and Gwaine fell into an intermittent pattern of talk, trading comments on the weather, the state of the roads, the surprising lack of violence they had encountered along the way, and at last came to rest inexorably on the one topic which Lancelot wished most to avoid: their destination.

"How did you come to hear that you were wanted back at court?" Lancelot inquired, more out of politeness than because he wanted to know, after a long pause in which neither of them had had anything to say. He tried to guess at the time it would take them to reach the castle, and whether this unexpected companionship would be likely to have to extend into another day.

"Oh, my friend Merlin told me," Gwaine said. "He came to find me as soon as he could get away after the coronation. Gods, but it'll be good to see him again. And Gwen. Have you ever met her?"

Lancelot could only nod in confusion, but Gwaine seemed untroubled by his silence.

"Of course, she would have been a servant when you were there — ah, you have? She'll make a fine queen, don't you think?" said Gwaine with satisfaction. "It's easy to see where her heart lies. Arthur is a lucky man."

Lancelot would have ground his teeth, but found his jaw too tightly clamped shut to move them at all.

It couldn't be that many miles left to Camelot.

* * *

There was nothing that said the Lord of the Royal Bedchamber and Protector of the King's Person had to help the King get dressed for the feast, but old habits died hard and Merlin began to rummage through Arthur's wardrobe without prompting.

"What was all that business about the Kingdom of Northumbria?" Merlin asked while Arthur changed from formal attire to even-more-formal attire. The delegation had arrived that afternoon, a little earlier than he'd anticipated. Although they were well within their predicted time and all the necessary preparations had been made, Arthur couldn't help feeling caught off guard and unprepared for the degree of ceremony expected of him. He had watched his father meet dozens of such diplomatic parties, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of being at the centre, the crux of it all.

"The Kingdom of Northumbria is centuries older than Camelot," Arthur replied absently. "Rupert's ancestors were kings before the Pendragon name existed — not something he's likely to let me forget." Arthur had read and rehearsed so much of Albion's history in preparation that it spilled out of his brain without conscious effort. Geoffrey of Monmouth had even wiped away a tear of pride after Arthur recited the entire lineage of the Northumbrian royal family backwards by birth order a few days before.

"But doesn't the Earl swear allegiance to Camelot?" Merlin asked in some confusion, having seen Arthur greet the Earl as he would another king or someone else of equal status.

"In theory, he does, of course," Arthur explained, "but in practice the Kingdom of Northumbria has always been an independent realm. The fealty the old Earl swore to my father was a part of the truce negotiated after his armies failed to take some of the lands along our borders. He sent us soldiers and grain as tribute only because he believed my father's army could take it by force if he neglected it. However it has been a long time since our forces were tried against each other in battle, and perhaps the new Earl thinks better of Northumbria's chances. Hand me that jacket, will you?"

"The one with... uh, the one with the tassels?" Merlin asked with a smirk.

"Yes, Merlin, the one with the tassels." Arthur glared, but it failed to restrain Merlin's mirth. "It was a gift from the late Earl's daughter. One of her first attempts at fancy embroidery, I believe. Her mother mentioned it particularly last night as something that would give her pleasure to see once more as reminding her of her dearly departed child, and I don't mean to risk giving offense by refusing her request."

"So you're just going to offend everyone else by inflicting the sight of it on the rest of us instead?" Merlin asked, holding the jacket at a safe distance, as if one of the bright red tassels might actually leap out and attack him. "Couldn't you just give it back to them as a token of remembrance or something?"

"Do you have _any_ concept the magnitude of insult it would represent to return such a gift?" Arthur asked incredulously. "Sometimes I wonder if you have simply not been _paying attention_ to what goes on around you. Our entire system of alliances is represented and confirmed by gifts, marriages, and grants of land. Returning a formal gift would be like inviting them to leave Camelot."

Merlin grinned. "I can see how handing that jacket to anyone could be an affront — sorry," he added, at Arthur's look.

Arthur merely rolled his eyes and returned to worrying over the topic of Northumbria's loyalty. He recited some more of the history of the realm for Merlin's benefit.

"Then, by the time the current Earl came to power," he continued, "my father's health was already declining. The tribute we received grew less while we were in no position to contest it, and now that he is gone, there has been no sign of continued fealty at all. The young Earl did not even see fit to attend my father's funeral."

"But couldn't that just be because he'd heard rumours of the attack?" Merlin asked with a yawn.

Arthur stood before the long mirror in the room, staring back at himself, looking unfamiliar and grim in his crown and formal garb. Did he look like a king? Would Rupert look at him and see any trace of his father? Or just a young boy trying to fill big robes?

"It's possible," he allowed, "but if that was why he didn't come, it doesn't bode well for this visit. It might even mean that Northumbria has turned its support to Mor— to my sister. Or simply that they are waiting to see which of us will emerge the stronger. Or for the two of us to wipe each other out so Northumbria can march in and take control of Camelot's lands. In any case, it isn't a good sign that they have waited this long to..." he glanced over at Merlin and found him sitting with half-lidded eyes staring into the fire. "You're not paying attention are you?"

Merlin's head snapped up from where it had been beginning to nod against his chest. "What? No, absolutely. Big, scary kingdom. Armies. Lots of sword brandishing."

Arthur sighed heavily. "And now I have to go convince the little twerp that he's risking an open war with Camelot by withholding the traditional tribute."

"The little twerp?" Merlin repeated.

"Our friend the noble Earl," Arthur specified. "The question is, though, is Camelot really in any position to threaten war? I won't be the one to lose all that my father gained in his lifetime, I can't let that happen, but I won't be a king who starts wars over political affronts, either."

"Seems to me like you need a third option," Merlin said helpfully.

"Brilliant thinking, Merlin, got any of those hidden away up your sleeve?" Arthur snapped, then quickly deflated. "No, never mind, neither have I. I need one, though, and fast. I'm not at all sure these talks are going to go well for Camelot. Speaking of which, I want you to entertain the Earl's nephew, you know, the one who's been sulking around the place since they arrived — Sir Rothby. He's the Earl's presumptive heir, so someone important has to look after him. Only I can't spare anyone who's actually important to the negotiations, and it'll keep you both out of the way."

"Thanks, that's really touching," Merlin said, then frowned. "Anyway, are you sure that's such a good idea? He was giving me the strangest looks all through the reception. I don't think he likes me very much."

"Come on, Merlin, he doesn't even know you. He hasn't had a chance to dislike you yet, unless—" Arthur peered at his councillor suspiciously "—you haven't managed to do something to offend him already?"

Merlin held his hands up in a gesture of complete innocence. "Nothing, I swear. It's as if he just doesn't like the look of me."

"Well, that's understandable enough," Arthur said generously. "Just don't let me down. We need things to go smoothly as long as they're here."

"About that..." Merlin coughed nervously. "Seeing as you weren't so keen on that little surprise of mine the other day..."

"You mean the enormous wedding present the castle servants still haven't found a way to remove from the hall? Or even to move out of the way? What did you do to it, Merlin, glue the thing to the floor?" Arthur asked with more amusement than irritation.

"Something like that," Merlin said. "It'll be gone in the morning. Listen, there was something — I thought it would be a nice surprise, you know, but maybe it's better if you know — I found Lancelot. He's promised to be in Camelot sometime in the next few days."

Arthur broke into a smile, more relaxed and happy at the news than he had felt all day. "Now, that is good news. It will be good to have him here with us at last. I need people around me I can count on." He made a final adjustment one of his shirt cuffs, and headed for the door.

"You _can_ count on me you know," Merlin said, sounding somewhat stung, "and Gwen. You're not doing this entirely on your own."

Arthur paused and clapped Merlin on the back. "I know," he said, "I know, I couldn't—" he took a deep breath and stared hard at a spot over Merlin's shoulder, avoiding eye contact "—I couldn't do this without you — without the both of you."

* * *

The road seemed to stretch and extend itself out before them the longer they rode, leaving Lancelot to wonder dismally if they would ever actually reach it or if he was doomed to interminable days of travelling with Gwaine. It was not that the man was such bad company in himself, but Lancelot felt they had little in common outside a small, private world of friends in Camelot, and the more Gwaine talked of those friends, the more Lancelot grew impatient to be at the journey's end.

They were within sight of Camelot, the uppermost towers of the castle rising from the forest in the distance, when Gwaine suggested bedding down for the night. Lancelot agreed reluctantly. His own preference would have been to carry on through the darkening gloom of the evening, arriving perhaps when most of the castle had retired and he could seek out his old friends for a less formal welcome. His companion made such a quiet entrance less likely — or was it that he didn't like to think of witnessing a private reunion, such as he pictured for himself, including this stranger as well?

They spread their blankets on the ground on either side of a small fire, Lancelot laying his out so he could lie and watch the last of the grey twilight while it picked out the upper turrets of the castle before it faded completely into darkness.

Wisps of smoke curled up from unseen sources hidden by the last range of trees between them and their destination. As he lay watching the plumes rise up and disperse, Lancelot tried to imagine which of them might come from one of the great fires in the castle, and which from a house and a forge where he had visited once years ago.

On the other side of the fire, Gwaine's thoughts were occupied in exactly the opposite direction. He watched the forest they had passed through during the day and the path they had taken as it disappeared into the gloam, and considered whether it would be better just to turn around now and take the same road back. No doubt he would be welcome, but he had few friends waiting for him at Camelot besides Merlin. The King and Queen would remember him kindly, he hoped, but there would be more who knew him as a man who got thrown out of taverns than who believed he belonged among King Arthur's court. Gwaine wasn't even sure he could count himself in the second category.

And if he did take up a place at court as one of Arthur's knights, what then? It was the same life he had always despised, the life his father might, perhaps, have led if he still lived. Would his father have been bound to Arthur's court himself, if he had? Would he have brought his son with him to become a knight, or sent Gwaine alone to make alliances on his own? Certainly Gwaine would not have had the freedom to walk away from a life among the nobility altogether.

Now, though, now he could still, if he chose, walk back into the woods and out of the power of any prince's command. With every hour that passed before the dawn, he was losing his chance at freedom, to be his own master and not beholden to any man. And yet he made no move to leave the small and flickering circle of firelight. He knew without question that he would stay on until the morning and, when it came, would cross the rest of the distance to the castle gates.

He would have liked to have a pragmatic reason for this certainty. No doubt he would enjoy better comforts at Camelot and a better life, by the world's measure. If he was honest with himself, though, he had thought of none of this when he made his decision. Merlin had asked him to come back and Gwaine had said yes without thinking and now, although he did not know why, he was bound to follow this path until its end.

Gwaine lay awake late into the night, long after he had woken Lancelot for his turn to keep watch. Although it was a dark night, with very few stars and only the slenderest moon, it seemed as though he could pick out the outline of every tree along the forest's edge. They swam in the darkness, hazy edges blending into each other's shadows and reforming every time he blinked. His eyes blinked more as the branches twisted into strange and unfamiliar shapes, swimming more the farther his eyelids drooped, until he was watching them in his dreams instead, unaware that he slept.


	2. Chapter 2

The Queen of Camelot slipped into the lord privy councillor's chambers the next morning, not long after breakfast. Her presence there was nothing unprecedented; they often spent a quiet morning together when the King was busy with affairs that did not require their presence.

In times of crisis, Merlin and Gwen were welcome voices of counsel and wisdom (much as the King hated to use that term with regard to Merlin) within the general council. When the occasion allowed, however, Arthur much preferred to consult their judgment in private, away from prying ears. He claimed it was because he didn't want his concentration interrupted at a diplomatically vital moment.

In fact, it was largely because Arthur disliked having an audience for conversations that went as follows:

"What's that bit with the squiggly lines?"

"That's the _ocean_ , Merlin, it's a big wet thing that goes all around the isle of Albion. That's why it's called an island."

"No, no, I see what he means — over there — are you expecting an attack by an army of snakes?"

"Wyverns, those are wyverns, they've very clearly got heads, and tails, and talons, and very sharp, pointy teeth."

"..."

"Of course, dear, I see that now. It's a very nice drawing, Arthur."

For the sake of the dignity of the Crown, therefore, Arthur surrounded himself with his more respectful advisors when there were potential witnesses. Since Arthur was still working hard to establish himself as a figure of authority and a strong successor to his father, Gwen and Merlin ended up spending quite a lot of time on their own together during council meetings, or as their own duties permitted.

This morning, however, Gwen arrived to find no sign of her friend anywhere in his chambers. She hunted through the rooms everywhere she could think of with no result until a whispered " _Gwen_!" startled her as she stood near the bed. A moment later she barely restrained a shriek as something reached out and grabbed her ankle, tugging her closer.

She shook it off and knelt down cautiously beside the bed, not discounting the possibility of something unpleasant leaping out at her when she did. Instead she came face to face with Merlin, who was making frantic _shush_ ing noises.

"Merlin, come on, you can't stay under there forever," Gwen reasoned with the bedstead after attempting, unsuccessfully, to lure him out.

"Are you sure that Sir Rothby isn't around?" Merlin asked after insisting that Gwen make another check of the room for eavesdroppers.

"We're the only ones here," Gwen assured him, "and my personal guards are still outside the door. I don't think anyone can have got in here in the last five minutes."

"He's trying to kill me," Merlin said plaintively, his voice somewhat muffled by bedclothes and cobwebs.

"No one's trying to kill you," Gwen said with a sigh. "It was just an accident, it could have happened to anyone."

"He set fire to my robes!" Merlin exclaimed, a single charred sleeve emerging from under the bed in brief visual emphasis.

"You're always saying you'd like to do that yourself," Gwen pointed out. It was true. Merlin regularly threatened to burn his official garments and was only kept in check by the King's promise that, if he did, he would find a new and more garish set waiting for him by the end of the day and the King himself would personally feed him his new hat.

"I was _in_ them at the time," Merlin protested. "If one of the kitchen maids hadn't spotted it and thrown soup over me to put it out, someone could have been hurt! As it is, that soup will never be recovered." He said it with great solemnity, as if the pot of mushed peas were one of the greatest losses Camelot would have to suffer.

"You have to remember how young he is," Gwen pleaded. "You must have made as many mistakes when you were new here and he's not that much older than you were then. Probably the court of Camelot is very grand and strange compared to what he's used to at home and his nerves are making him clumsy. Besides, he's a cousin of the Earl, we can't afford to offend him, and you did promise to spend some time with him last night."

"That was before I was aware of his homicidal tendencies!" Merlin exclaimed. "He was talking about riding off into an isolated spot in the woods today for a bit of hunting. I'm not good at hunting, Gwen, I usually bump into things. At least Arthur used to make sure no one shot me; I don't think Sir Rothby is going to be that bothered."

Merlin fixed a sad and helpless look on his face, forcing Gwen to harden her heart as best she could with the memory of the many times that Merlin had caused life-threatening mishaps of his own. The time he had nearly destroyed the castle kitchens over a theory about an intruder being able to hide in the largest cooking pot made a good example; they'd been scraping exploded shards of pot and cabbage leaves off the kitchen walls for weeks. Gwen doubted the Northumbrian knight could have a greater capacity for haphazard destruction.

"You can't just stand Sir Rothby up if he's expecting you," Gwen insisted. "If you don't come out of here dressed and ready to be diplomatic in the next five minutes, I'm going to have to send the guards in to drag you out."

"I could tell Arthur I'm sick," Merlin suggested brightly. "I'm very ill and I need to rest and I haven't got time to be assassinated by any pyromaniac knights from Northumbria today."

Gwen shook her head. "It won't work, I'm afraid, and I haven't got any more time to play hide and seek this morning. I have to go discuss dress fashions with the awful Lady Lavinia and try to convince her that a sundering of the truce between Camelot and Northumbria would mean that all her sleeves would be out of date and a source of general social mockery by the end of the year."

Merlin frowned. "Isn't she the one who tripped over her own lace ruff at dinner last night? I thought she was already a source of universal mockery."

Gwen snickered and then quickly repressed it. "Yes, but if anyone tells her that, she could start a war. I really _have_ to go."

There was a hearty sigh from under the bed as Gwen stood, and a moment later Merlin emerged, somewhat dusty and dishevelled, from his hiding place.

"I would just like it to be known and recorded for future generations," he announced, "that, if I die today, it was all due to the unkindness and the politically conniving heart of the Queen Guinevere."

Gwen giggled. "I'll make sure Geoffrey gets a note about it, if you do."

Merlin solemnly retrieved his hat — a red, garish cap that extended about a foot above his face — and placed it on his head with funereal gravity. "Remember me fondly," he said, kissing Gwen on the cheek and leaving behind a cobweb on her hair.

Gwen smiled after him, then sighed and went to go find someone to talk to about lace.

Arthur meanwhile would have happily traded places with either of them if it had meant someone else had to endure the lengthy speech that the Earl of Northumbria was giving him about the weight and onerous responsibilities of kingship. The Earl had begun with belated condolences on his father's death, profuse regrets that he had not been able to attend the funeral, a few score words on the importance of strength in a ruler, which Uther had displayed, and several hundred on the dangers of appearing hesitant or indecisive, which Uther had not. The entire speech was tinged with condescension and filled with references to Arthur's "youth" — which Arthur thought was a bit rich coming from a man barely five years older than himself, and who had been ruling about as long.

The Earl concluded with his thanks for Arthur's invitation to visit the court of Camelot — which the Earl had ignored for almost five months — and assured him that Northumbria had every intention of supporting the new King with the same steadfastness as the old — which Arthur doubted.

"Thank you for your words of friendship," Arthur said, jumping in at the first available pause lest the Earl get a second wind and begin a new discourse on the philosophy of kingship. "Northumbria has always been one of our most valued allies, and I hope will continue to be so for a long time. Perhaps while you are here, we could go over one or two areas of mutual concern — matters of security along our borders..."

"Indeed, indeed," the Earl interjected, "as I have always said, the fruit of alliance is born from the sweetest flower, but also the most delicate, which needs the most careful tending, a jealous husbanding..."

Arthur slumped imperceptibly in his chair, and only managed to retain a moderately cheerful expression by reminding himself that eight years ago, when the Earl had still been "that little twerp, Rupert" and only third in line for his father's seat, Arthur had had the very great pleasure of knocking the stuffing out of him in a practice bout.

* * *

Gwaine slept, when at last he did sleep, with all the dedication of an anvil learning to swim; that is to say, he sunk far and fast. Had he slept more lightly, had the demands of a long and weary road travelled mostly on foot been less pressing, he might have heard the following:

"Is this the one?"

"Maybe, hard to tell. Bring the torch closer. I need to see his face."

"Careful, you'll wake him."

"This isn't him. Must be the other one."

"Right. I'll deal with him soon enough."

"Don't let him wake the other. We don't want extra trouble."

"All right, I've got it."

There was a brief scuffle, a thud, and then the woods were silent again. Gwaine slept on.

He awoke from dreams of moving, dancing forests to find the trees back where he had left them, solid and unbending and clearly delineated by the morning light.

It was well past sunrise, and Gwaine wondered why Lancelot had done nothing to wake him. The man had seemed impatient enough to reach the castle the night before; Gwaine had expected to be roused at the first glimmer of daylight. The puzzle was solved when Gwaine looked around and discovered that Lancelot, his blanket, saddle-bag, and every other sign of him was gone, leaving Gwaine alone beside the cold ashes. More to the point, both the horses were missing.

Gwaine cursed. Not with much creativity, but with a great deal of feeling. It wasn't as though he hadn't run into unscrupulous travellers before, but Lancelot had seemed so unflinchingly courteous. It was hard to believe he would go to so much trouble just to steal Gwaine's horse while he slept. Not that it _was_ Gwaine's horse, except by moral right. Perhaps that was it. If Lancelot had had an attack of conscience in the night about Gwaine's liberation of the horse from its former owner, and decided to return it, he might have had the courtesy to consider Gwaine's feelings about walking the rest of the way to Camelot.

Gwaine gathered what remained of his belongings and tidied away the last of their camp in a fit of irritation. Fortunately he had kept his sword bundled beside him as he slept; he didn't own much else of value. He wondered if Lancelot would even bother to return this way if he were on a misguided errand of horse restoration. It had scarcely escaped Gwaine's notice how often Lancelot had checked his horse's progress after spurring it on unthinkingly. Perhaps he had simply forgotten Gwaine in his haste.

Well, Gwaine would not wait either. He did not mind the loss of such an unfriendly travelling companion. If he took some of the hunting tracks that ran through the forest he might even beat Lancelot and arrive first.

There were further benefits to this method of travel, Gwaine discovered in his way along a game trail; he was enjoying the opportunities it afforded to slash at any impinging growth that barred his way. It was not a particularly good example of valorous combat, but some of the plants, thick, resilient, and prickly, did put up a good effort at fighting back. Gwaine had just concluded a victorious battle against a gorse bush when he realized that the sounds he was still hearing of someone pushing through shrubbery were not his alone.

He stopped to listen and in a moment recognized footsteps bearing toward him, moving first at a fast walk and then speeding to a run. He was just looking around for signs of their likely quarry when a figure burst out from a dense patch of foliage right in front of him, and nearly bowled Gwaine over.

"Merlin?" he exclaimed in surprise. He had to grasp Merlin's elbows to stop them colliding, which led to an awkward dance on the narrow path.

"Gwaine?" said Merlin, equally startled, but then he was dragging Gwaine unceremoniously down into the gorse bushes and clapping a hand over his mouth. Gwaine didn't mind the position, but he had just spent a lot of effort getting _out_ of those same gorse bushes.

A moment later, though, Merlin's reasons became clear, as a burly youth burst out of the undergrowth into the spot where they had just been standing.

"Merlin?" his pursuer called out. "Are you there? I think we'd better stick together, or one of us is going to get lost. Aha!" he exclaimed, spotting their hiding place. "Got you," he added in an undertone. An ugly, malicious look stretched itself across his features.

The youth's look and manner changed completely as he caught sight of Gwaine, becoming instantly closed off and guarded. His stance shifted subtly and Gwaine noticed that his sword was drawn, and had clearly been held at the ready during his pursuit. Without knowing what had passed between them, Gwaine could feel himself move instinctively to shelter Merlin, pushing out of the brambles to stand between the two of them, and letting his hand rest in readiness upon the hilt of his sword.

Gwaine's presence, however, was enough to deter the stranger from any immediate violence. His manner became at once relaxed and casual in the presence of a witness. The only thing left to attest to the threat were Gwaine's jangling nerves and the deathgrip Merlin kept on his arm.

Merlin came out of the bushes looking much more like himself, his clothes and hair wildly dishevelled, more than should have been possible from a few minutes' hiding. He seemed to become aware of some awkwardness in the situation and flushed.

"Erm. Gwaine, this is Sir Rothby, nephew of the Earl of Northumbria. Uh, this is Gwaine. Knight — soon to be knight of Camelot." Merlin cast a wary glance between the two of them: Gwaine still standing tense and at the ready to draw his sword, Sir Rothby seemingly at ease but with his sword still drawn. "Um. Maybe we should be heading back," he suggested, making motions to continue on the path toward the castle.

"Will you lead the way?" Sir Rothby asked, gesturing politely to the way ahead with his sword hand.

"Oh no, we insist," Gwaine growled, "after you." He took Merlin by the shoulder, lightly steering him to the side as they walked along the narrow path so that Gwaine remained between him and Sir Rothby the rest of the way back to the castle.

It was not quite the homecoming he had pictured, but then it might be a promising sign that a settled life at Camelot would not be as dull or routine as Gwaine had been imagining.

* * *

Merlin's nervousness of the morning had only increased when he found that Sir Rothby did not intend to take any attendants with them on their hunting trip.

"Too many people underfoot only interferes with the sport, don't you think?" he had said when Merlin commented on the intimate size of their party. He clapped Merlin heartily on the back, nearly knocking him over in the process.

"Shouldn't we take a guide at least?" Merlin suggested desperately. "It's only fair to tell you, I have a really terrible sense of direction. We could end up wandering for days. And wolves — there could be wolves. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you out there because I... would be useless against wolves."

Sir Rothby had merely laughed and made as if to thump Merlin's back again; Merlin flinched out of the way and Rothby seemed to get another laugh out of that. He began testing the points on his arrows, and Merlin made a show of doing the same, while running over a number of spells under his breath that could disable a person without too patently involving a magical effect. He knew he was probably being ridiculous and overreacting to just another unpleasant, somewhat buffoonish noble; there was no reason he shouldn't be able to defend himself against someone who relied on physical weapons.

It couldn't hurt to be careful, though. Hunting accidents could happen even without any ill intent, and if Sir Rothby was really so clumsy he could knock over a heavy candelabra onto Merlin's head without meaning to, Merlin didn't like to trust the results of letting him loose in the forest to go shoot things. At least not so long as Merlin was potentially one of those things.

Sir Rothby just made Merlin nervous. It was nothing so definite as the feeling he got from the proximity of powerful magic, but it sent a shiver down the back of his spine nonetheless. There was something about the apparently simple and straightforward knight that felt _wrong_.

Spending so much time alone with Sir Rothby in the woods had made Merlin edgy, even before Sir Rothby started firing arrows that missed Merlin's head by mere inches. At that point, Merlin decided the better part of valour was putting as much distance between himself and the knight as he possibly could. He would have been glad enough to run into Gwaine in any case, but Merlin could have kissed him for showing up when he did.

* * *

Lancelot's eyes flickered open to the sight of a grey stone ceiling. The rest of his body caught up with his consciousness a moment later and he uttered an involuntary, " _Ow_."

"Oh good, you're awake," said an unfamiliar female voice. "We thought Sidney might have traumatised you permanently. He's very strong, but his aim's bad, so I shouldn't think he wanted to kill you or anything. He was probably just aiming for your back. We're not a _mindlessly_ violent family."

Lancelot groaned. There was something not right here, but he couldn't quite place it. His ears were ringing and he felt faintly nauseous, which wasn't helping him to think. He turned his head a little to the side towards the unfamiliar voice and decided that there was something he recognized about the young woman leaning over him with a faint expression of concern. He couldn't connect her face to anything else, though, and to figure out where he was he would have to move his head more. His head _hurt_ right now and Lancelot wasn't sure it was worth it.

"What did you want to go and interfere like that for, anyway?" the young woman demanded. "I could have handled Greg just fine if you and your little friend hadn't got in the way."

"Greg—" Lancelot managed to repeat in some confusion.

"—ory. Sir Gregory," she elaborated, "my brother. He was the one your friend knocked out in the woods. The knight in black? I don't know what the world is coming to when ordinary people can start riding around in the woods like that, interfering in private matters. Is it any wonder Greg thinks _you_ were trying to abduct me?"

Lancelot struggled up onto his elbows, although the move caused jabbing pains that told him he ought to lie down again and his head swam in protest. He could place the girl now, the one from the woods yesterday. And the black knight — her brother?

"Didn't you tell them what had happened?" he asked groggily.

"Of course I did, what do you think?" She rolled her eyes at him, and vanished for a moment from his field of vision, returning with a cup of water, which she held up for Lancelot to drink. "I told my father you were just a passing stranger who thought _Greg_ was trying to abduct me. But Greg is such a dramatist, he doesn't like to admit he was knocked out by a big stick, so he's making the whole thing out to be a murderous attack. And then besides, there was the question of the armour."

"The armour... what about armour?" Lancelot asked. His head was still spinning, and there was a point somewhere at the back of his skull where pain was throbbing with a dull insistence. He hadn't been wearing any armour to travel, and said as much — probably if he had his head wouldn't be aching like this. It was something to think about for the future, whatever that man had said — whoever he was — about being knocked out by your own helmet.

" _My_ armour, not yours," the girl said, as if it was obvious, "as if _you_ could be expected to have anything like that. It was a _knight's_ armour. They found the set in my saddle bags — well of course I had to come home to tell someone where Greg was and to make sure the pair of you hadn't killed him, only then they got a look through the saddle bags on my horse before I could hide them. So _of course_ they found the armour I'd stashed there, and because I couldn't tell them about getting it from Timothy or what I'd wanted it for they just went and assumed it was _yours_ , and that you were some mysterious knight, _ha!_ As if I'd ever run away with someone who looks like he ought to be clearing out our stables." She said most of this without, apparently, pausing for breath. "It would probably fit you, though," she added a bit more reflectively, her head tilted to the side as if to take his measure. "We're about the same size. I suppose I can understand the mistake. Gregory was never a very good judge of character."

Lancelot was about to ask, "The same size as what?" but the scattered and tangled pieces of information were beginning to slot together in his head. He was also starting to remember the previous night, as well as the day preceding it, when he had met Gwaine. He remembered standing guard over their camp, pacing to and fro as far from the fire as he reasonably could, although he could not let Gwaine's sleeping form completely out of his sight. He had turned away for a moment, hearing a rustling noise come out of the trees, and then there had been a crash that made him put his hand to his sword, but everything in his memory went dark after that.

"They kidnapped me!" he exclaimed at last, connecting the idea of a night-time ambush with his presence in this unfamiliar room.

"Obviously," the girl agreed, as if he had been slow at figuring it out. "You're lucky they think I was running off with you willingly. _And_ that they think you're actually a knight. Otherwise they'd just have thrown you in a cell to be flogged or something. As it is they'll probably let you recover a little before they insist on fighting you. You should try to sit up if you can. I'll have Mathilde send up some soup."

With that she took herself off, and Lancelot realized she had left him still not knowing her name. He pushed himself up fully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and although his head throbbed even more at the movement, it subsided a little once he was sitting still.

The room was mostly bare. It was a small stone cell, such as might have been inhabited by an ascetic monk. The bed on which he now sat, a table, and a chair in which the girl must have been sitting before he woke, were its only furnishings. A much faded carpet covered the floor nearest the bed, the one concession to warmth in the otherwise sparse and chill stone room. There was a piece of plain work set aside on the table, that the girl must have left. The heavy oak door that she had shut behind her when she went away showed no signs from within of being barred, but he did not know if there would be guards waiting on the other side.

He stood carefully and walked towards the only window that his cell afforded. It showed that he was high up, in a turret that looked down slantwise at the main part of a stone castle. Below it he could see the hustle and bustle of daily life carrying on. Servants rushed back and forth on their own errands in a constant stream of activity.

There was a small practice yard just visible in an inside corner of the keep, and in it Lancelot could see an extremely broad-shouldered young man exercising his bladework against a wooden practice dummy. He wondered if it was one of the lady's brothers who had abducted him — not the one who had worn the black armour, based on his girth, but perhaps the one who had fetched him that powerful blow to the head.

He didn't hear the door open; the servants must have kept the door hinges exceptionally well oiled.

"So you must be the man who has us all in such a fine uproar today."

The speaker was a man of about forty, with dark hair and a beard, who stood watching Lancelot with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm afraid you have not had a very pleasant journey here," the man said apologetically. "My sons are somewhat impetuous, but they mean well. It was quite a shock to all of us to find Elaine missing — we all thought that someone— Well. We thought the worst. She swears though that no one took her from here by force, and I am inclined to believe her. She has always been impulsive."

Lancelot bowed, a somewhat curtailed courtesy since he was trying not to move his head too much.

"Sir, I take it you are the lord of this castle?" he asked.

The man inclined his head politely. "My name is Pelles, and I am the king of those lands — diminished and scattered though they may be — in which you were travelling. I can see you don't recognize the name," he added, taking in Lancelot's reaction. "You must be a stranger in this part of the country, then."

"A stranger to all of Camelot and the lands around it for several years," Lancelot admitted. "I have returned to offer my service once more to King Arthur. If you will send a messenger to the king, he will vouch for my honesty."

"I will send word to your friends if you wish, but it is not your honesty I doubt; my daughter has already explained the circumstances that led to your mistaken attack on my son. Although she still will not tell me the reason for her secretive departure, I do believe her account of your innocent encounter along the way."

"Then you do not mean to hold me here any longer?" Lancelot asked, feeling a weight lift off his heart.

Pelles did not answer immediately, and Lancelot's worse premonitions returned.

"I do not believe that you meant any harm by your actions," Pelles explained at length, "but harm has been done. Word of my daughter's flight has spread among the common people here, as well as the news that last night my sons brought her abductor back — a very handsome young man, by all reports," he added, looking Lancelot over critically. "Well, I suppose if one is to lose one's daughter to a scandalous elopement, the rogue may as well be a handsome one."

Lancelot opened his mouth to protest, but Pelles held up a hand to forestall it. "I know, I know, you never had that design. Still, you must think of how it looks to the people here when she vanished, and how easily they believe that young hearts will do everything they should not."

"That may be so," Lancelot agreed, "but surely you cannot hold me responsible for what these people say."

"That lies with your own conscience," Pelles said. "I cannot tell you how to feel in the matter. You can leave now if you wish. No guards will stop you, and I have bid my sons not to stand in your way. I will not imprison a man for a mistake, especially one he made in what he thought was the defense of one of my children's safety. However, if you do, my daughter's honour — her good name in this land — will be tarnished forever. I beg you, as a father, not to let that happen."

"What would you have me do?" Lancelot asked. "If there is anything I can say to relieve the people's suspicion, I will do so happily, but how much more likely is it that they will accept my word, as a stranger, if yours or your daughter's will not suffice?"

"It is not your word I have come to ask you for," Pelles said. "My daughter tells me you offered to defend her honour in combat when you first met her, before you had any idea of who she was. That is what I would ask you now to do. We will hold a tournament here in a week's time. If you wish to help my daughter retain her good name, you will enter the tournament as her champion and swear to defend her against all challengers."

"And who would my challengers be?" Lancelot asked, although he had already guessed at the answer.

"Her brothers will challenge your right to take up her defense yourself and each of them will fight you in turn to make you prove your worth."

Lancelot frowned. In principle he saw nothing wrong with fighting as a lady's champion, but to fight her own brothers for her sake — it seemed somehow of a weightier significance.

"If I win?" he asked Pelles.

"You win the right to my daughter's hand, and those lands which are her droit and inheritance," Pelles said simply. "You must admit it is a generous offer."

It was, no doubt, a generous offer, to hand over his daughter to a stranger for the sake of her reputation. Lancelot's feelings revolted at the idea, and yet he wondered what the alternative could be, if that was the first choice.

"And if I lose?" he wondered aloud.

"Assuming you survive the tournament itself —" Pelles held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, to show that it was a question of matters beyond his control "— you will be banished henceforth from these lands, to return only on penalty of death."

"And your daughter?" Lancelot wanted to know what the result was to be for her if he failed.

Pelles sighed heavily. "Consigned to some holy place, perhaps. There are some relics belonging to my family that she may be assigned to keep in her charge. Or a good marriage may not yet be impossible, if we can find a man of noble birth who will not mind whatever rumours are born of these events." He must have caught something of Lancelot's distaste for these suggestions in his expression, as he added, "This would be her fate in any case, if you choose to leave this place now. I only ask that you consider the alternative."

He made as if to leave and Lancelot called him back to say, "Your daughter — Elaine — may I speak to her before I make my decision?"

Pelles inclined his head. "I will send someone to bring you to her presently," he said, and was gone.

Lancelot paced aimlessly around the room. It was small, and he could scarcely take four strides from one end to the other before he had to turn. Though he had been assured he could leave, there was nowhere in particular for him to go, and so he made his rounds of the confined space, feeling like a caged animal, held in by the invisible bars of his situation.

If Pelles was to be believed, it would be easy enough to walk out of the door, slip away quietly, and avoid the entire mess of tangled obligations. He could still scarcely be more than a day's ride from Camelot, unless he had been unconscious much longer than he thought. If he took a horse from the stables — or his own if it was there — and rode through the day, he might yet arrive on the same day as he had expected, if a little later.

He couldn't help feeling some responsibility for what had happened, though. It was true he hadn't been the one to attack the Lady Elaine's brother, but it was his own self-righteous interference that had led to the mistake and brought him here. She might not be much worse off than if he had simply left her to be dragged home on her own, but now that he _was_ involved, it felt too much like cowardice to slink off and let others sort out the consequences for themselves.

On the other hand, he had made a promise to Merlin that he would be at King Arthur's court within the next few days. Merlin had said that Arthur needed people close to him on whose loyalty he could rely — and what kind of loyalty would it be to ignore his king's summons for the benefit of strangers? If he remained, and if he was victorious in combat, it must seem that he had neglected his duty to his future king to pursue his own advantage in marriage.

And then there was the thought of going before Queen Guinevere — Gwen — honour-bound to another woman, someone whom he had just met. He wondered how he could bear to accept her welcome knowing that he had already betrayed her, in his faith if not in his heart. Yet perhaps it would be better for all concerned if he arrived already wed to another, as she was, so there could be no question of unwanted feelings standing in the way of friendship.

Better for all concerned, except perhaps the Lady Elaine. Of her wishes he knew nothing but that she had never intended to run off one day into the woods and the next find herself wed to a stranger.

Or he might lose the tournament and the outcome of it all would be meaningless, except that he would arrive a few days later, in the same condition, if perhaps a little more bruised and humbled. He trusted to his skill in combat, but he had gained more experience in a rougher style of fighting over the years than in the formal practice of the tourney grounds. He might not succeed at all.

Lancelot paced some more.

A knock on the door startled him, and he called out, "Come in!" expecting it to be Elaine. Instead, a pale and skinny boy entered the room, juggling a tray badly balanced with heavy dishes as he propped the door open first with a knee, then an elbow, finally catching it with the back of his heel and almost tripping the rest of the way in. Lancelot made an instinctive move to steady him, but by then the boy had recovered himself, sliding the tray down onto the table improbably without disaster.

Something about him reminded Lancelot strongly of Merlin — although if there had been a greater resemblance, no doubt his breakfast would be scattered across the floor rather than neatly collected on the table — and he couldn't help grinning at the strangely conducted bow the boy gave on quitting the room. He bent at unlikely places, as if his joints were purely present for show, and he folded up at whatever point of his anatomy occurred to him as being convenient at the moment.

Warmed by the thought of his friend, Lancelot sat down on the bed to eat with better appetite and cheer than he had expected a few minutes ago.

He had scarcely finished eating, and was still in fact contemplating an apple core with lingering interest, when the boy reappeared, made another awkward bow, and invited him to come visit the Lady Elaine's chambers.

Elaine smiled as they entered, which Lancelot at first took to be a good sign, but he soon found the welcome was directed rather at the serving boy than at him because the first greeting she gave was, "Thanks, Tim," and inquired whether he (Timothy) had got his share of the midday meal yet, before taking any notice of Lancelot at all.

When she did acknowledge his presence, it was only to say, "Well?" in the same tone as she might have said, "You again?"

Lancelot wondered at their being left alone together, after her father had expressed so much concern over the very idea of his daughter eloping, and said so.

"Oh, he probably thinks you've already done the worst you could by compromising my reputation," Elaine said with complete unconcern.

Lancelot wondered at this attitude even more, but only asked, "and your father's plans?"

"They're all roughly the same as before, aren't they?" she said. "He wants to see me married one way or another. I think father had his hopes that when it came time for the King of Camelot to choose his queen, he would look towards us." She shrugged without much interest. "I never met him, but I suppose it would have been something to be queen. His kingdom is much larger than my father's, you know." She said it as if she were discussing the relative merits of a pair of shoes. She could have been saying, "This one has buttons, but the other ones are blue."

"Did you never think of marrying for love?" Lancelot asked her.

She merely shrugged again. "Father says that isn't the point of marrying people. Or rather he says that people who have lands to think about don't marry each other for love, that's for poor people to do. Nobles only marry so that their lands won't be divided and lost through the generations. So it's really got more to do with map-making than feelings."

Lancelot was puzzled by the phrase. "Map-making?"

"Oh, you know, lines on maps," she said, gesturing to one wall, the move seeming random, until he realized she was pointing out a tapestry that picked out stylized features of the countryside between its motifs of lords and ladies riding through the woods. "Marriages and children rearrange all the lines. Unless you go around marrying your cousins until everyone looks so alike you can't remember the right names at the dinner table. I think father's always hoped since he had four children he could annex the kingdoms in every direction by marrying us off to the relevant heirs. He's had Greg in mind for the Princess Elena and me for Prince Arthur since that match was broken off — only now Arthur is king and married, he doesn't know what to do with me any more. He started inviting minor barons a few weeks ago out of desperation and the first one to arrive had _warts everywhere_."

Lancelot made a suitable noise of sympathy about the warts. "But have you never felt — has there never been anyone you _wanted_ to marry? Someone you would have married if you were —" he stumbled over the words "— one of the poor people and could do as you liked."

Elaine wrinkled her nose and appeared to ponder this. After a moment she took a step back and ran her eyes over Lancelot assessingly. Then she squinted, tilted her head the other way and did it again, closing her left eye halfway through and peering judgmentally at him out of the right one.

Lancelot found himself growing increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze and wished he could interpose some piece of furniture — or possibly a small but sturdy battlement — between them.

"Hmm," she said finally, after a long, lingering look at his neck, "no, I don't think there's anyone I'd want to marry. But I'll give it some thought."

"Erm —" Lancelot gargled. He coughed repeatedly to clear his throat and tried to ignore the rising warmth in his cheeks. "I suppose your father told you what he has in mind as the, uh, for the... results of the tournament?"

"You mean that I'm to be the prize," Elaine said frankly. "Yes, he offered me the choice between marrying my 'chivalrous highwayman', as he called you, or spending the rest of my life looking after his old dinner set."

Lancelot, who had been nodding along in understanding, had to stop to say, "Dinner set?"

"His cup thing, and some bit of wood that's supposed to be from a spear or something, but looks more like a splintered old table knife." She went over to the tapestry that she had pointed out before, and drew a corner of it back to reveal a closet behind it. She vanished for a moment and returned holding an ancient wooden cup — almost like a beggar's bowl — and a broken-off piece of wood that did slightly resemble a crude knife.

"You see?" she said. "This is the great legacy my father has in store for me if he can't dispose of me suitably. Sometimes I think it'd be better to just set fire to the things and claim they'd vanished — only then I suppose he'd accuse one of my attendants or something else." She stepped back into the closet and Lancelot could hear the objects clatter as she tossed them back into their places. "So you can see why I wanted to leave," she added, coming back into the room, "and why I was so glad about Tim."

Lancelot considered the serving boy with renewed interest. "Was he the one you were —" he didn't know whether to add, "running away with."

"Oh, Tim helped me to sneak away. Only I couldn't tell my father or my brothers that, because they might have turned him away for it — or something worse. He was the only one who knew where I'd gone, you see, but he'd sworn not to tell them where I was, and I'd sworn not to tell anyone about him helping, so neither of us could tell anyone that I hadn't known anything about you."

"I see," said Lancelot, who wasn't sure he did. "You haven't told me, though, if there was anyone you _were_ expecting to meet in the forest —" He couldn't help feeling it was a matter of some importance if there was someone she had actually intended to elope with, who might be a better candidate for doing battle for her hand.

She stared at him as if he'd suggested she had been out hunting for pixie dust. "Why would _you_ think that? You don't imagine I had a secret _rendez-vous_ with your branch-wielding friend, do you?

"No, I meant, the armour," Lancelot said hastily, "that you said they thought you meant for me. But it wasn't."

She scowled at him fiercely. "I've already told you that — it was _mine_. You're as bad as William, I tried telling _him_ that it couldn't be some, some _man's_ armour," she said with great scorn, "because it was clearly meant for me, but he just said, 'what would you want armour for, and where would you get it anyway,' and looked smug and self-satisfied when I wouldn't answer. I saved up nearly a year for that armour and sold bits of fine work in the town through Tim, and he snuck away every fortnight for two months carrying measurements back and forth in secret to the town blacksmith, and now they'll probably just _let you_ wear it for the tournament, and you'll probably ruin it too, getting yourself knocked about by Greg. It doesn't seem fair." Her voice was edged with a frustration that sounded so near to tears that Lancelot hesitated, not wanting to disturb her any further.

"Am I to understand, then, that you wish me to fight your brothers in this tournament?" Lancelot asked cautiously.

Elaine sighed shakily. "You might as well. If you don't, I'll probably never get away from here, and you don't seem like you'd be _too_ horrible to marry. Not like a troll or a baron with warts or anything. Besides —" and a brighter gleam of interest came into her eye for the first time in their conversation "— you _did_ say you were headed for Camelot, didn't you?"

Lancelot agreed, but said, "I thought you said there was nothing interesting at Camelot now that you couldn't marry the King?"

"I never said there was," she said quickly. "It would just be a change from guarding a goblet for the rest of my life."

"Then I will go speak to your father about this challenge," Lancelot said, with a small bow.

"Don't let William get in under your right side," she said almost absently as he left. "He has a nasty little trick of jabbing people beneath the sword arm and knocking it out."


	3. Chapter 3

"So tell me, Guinevere, do you like being Queen?" Sir Rothby asked, leaning forward around his aunt to address her.

It was the fourth night since the Northumbrian party's arrival at Camelot and already Gwen was wishing for a quiet evening alone with Arthur to recover from the day's careful, unceasing diplomacy. It was not to be, however, as feasts were being held each night, partly in honour of their guests and partly to impress upon those guests the wealth and importance of the court of Camelot. Another week remained before the tournament that would close the visit and return the fluster of activity throughout the castle to something approaching normal. Gwen tried not to think ungraciously of how much nicer it would be if the tournament were tomorrow.

Gwen gave Sir Rothby a polite smile, puzzled by his question. It was one she had heard often enough from the nobles of Camelot and come to heartily dislike. Gwen had never felt herself so constantly observed and criticised as she did in the week following Elyan's knighting. She had spent the entire week ducking around corners out of sight to check that she didn't have anything odd on her face. By the end of the week she had determined that the only odd thing people were seeing was a former servant who now had any face at all worth noticing or a name worth remembering.

One feast night, although Gwen had meant to head directly for the Great Hall, her feet had taken her there by way of the kitchens out of a long habit of serving Morgana at the high table. An old friend of hers, Esmeralda, had been busy ferrying dishes into the arms of hall servants and had handed one to Gwen as she came in without even looking up.

Gwen had even taken a few steps out of the kitchen with the dish before she recollected herself and laughed, handing it back to Esmeralda. Esmeralda took it with some confusion and even began to ask what the matter was before she took in Gwen's finer clothes and said, " _Oh_ , I'm sorry... my lady."

Gwen had merely smiled and stood as well out of the way of the crush of activity to ask after Esmeralda's family in the town. Esmeralda's answers were brief — understandably, thought Gwen, who knew what the rush could be like before feasts like tonight's when everyone was celebrating a good harvest for the kingdom.

Gwen did what she could not to get underfoot, and between Esmeralda's terse replies she soaked in the familiar atmosphere of the bustling kitchen. It wasn't until she caught one of the other maids casting an odd look in her direction, which Esmeralda answered with a muttered, " _leave it_ ," that Gwen thought of anything being amiss. Then she began to notice that some of the servants were giving the place where she stood a wide berth as they passed to and fro.

Esmeralda, pretending not to see any of it, asked Gwen, "So, what's it like being a fine lady at court, then?"

Gwen, confused and troubled by the behaviour of the other servants, had only stammered something about how strange it was.

"Yes, we all thought it was strange," one of the other kitchen maids, a girl named Jean who Gwen had known for more than ten years, murmured in comment. Another one hissed to silence her, but she went on anyway, "I'm surprised you'd still want to come down here," with a mixture of resentment and scorn that made Gwen feel as though she'd been slapped.

At that point the head cook, separating herself from the direction of the final stages of preparation, came over and gave Gwen a polite curtsey. "Everything is nearly finished here, my lady. You may wish to take your place in the hall before you are missed from the feast."

Gwen, embarrassed at being both deferred to and subtly chastised by a woman she had looked up to as a figure of great authority among the servants, said goodbye to Esmeralda in a state of confusion, and rushed away feeling awful.

After that night, although Gwen still sought out Esmeralda when she could, and they exchanged polite pleasantries, there was a painful consciousness that overshadowed all their later conversations, and Esmeralda never again shared her bitingly worded commentary on the latest town gossip. That one evening and the changes it showed her had hurt Gwen more than all the condescending looks of the courtly ladies who had asked with astonishment, "and you say you were really a _servant_ here? I would never have guessed it, you don't seem like one of _them_ at all."

Eventually Gwen had stopped mentioning her work at the castle altogether and only talked about her father and her brother the blacksmiths. Even so, it seemed many of the courtly ladies couldn't forgive her for being sister to a mere blacksmith, raised to knighthood by the King's whim.

"And what's it like for you being Queen, Guinevere?" they asked, or "How are you adjusting to your new position?" Gwen sometimes thought that if half the ladies at the court envied her for her position, the other half despised her for daring to want it. And yet she hadn't wanted the title they cared so much about — hadn't wanted, even, to be sister to a knight except for Elyan's sake; all she had wanted was to be married to Arthur. It surprised her still that so few people could see the difference between _Arthur_ and _the King_.

Her one fond memory of being asked such a question was from her wedding night, when she and Arthur had first climbed into bed together, both of them nervous and uncertain. There was something about being actually married and lying together between the sheets with only her thin nightdress separating them that overwhelmed them both with nerves and left Gwen hesitant and speechless. Arthur shifted a little on his side of the bed as if to move closer but didn't actually do anything except clear his throat nervously.

"So, uhm, how do you like being Queen?" he asked, half-propping himself up on his elbow. He affected a casual tone but then he suddenly stopped and flushed bright red. At the same time Gwen felt him pressing against her thigh and broke into a helpless fit of giggling.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Gwen said breathlessly, "it's just — you sounded like you were asking about the weather." Another burst of giggles escaped her despite her best efforts to contain it. "No — don't," she added as he began to draw away in embarrassment, "what I wanted to say was —" she placed her hand against his cheek and felt the laughter abruptly simmer down to a deep bubbling well of happiness in her chest "— that I don't know much yet about being Queen, but I know — I know that being _your_ Queen makes me happier than I've ever been in my life." By the time she finished the laughter was gone and she felt as solemn and timorous as she had when she stood up before the assembled court for her coronation.

Arthur reached up and laid his fingers against hers and, smiling beneath their joined hands, said, "My Queen."

The next morning, when she still must have been glowing, she was sure, with inner light, Merlin had sidled up to her and asked with a nudge and a grin, "Sooooo, what's it like?"

"Merlin!" Gwen had exclaimed. "I'm not going to talk about that!"

Merlin just looked innocent. "Aren't you going to tell me what it's like, you know... being Queen?" He whispered 'being Queen' as if it were a secret the two of them shared, despite the hundreds of other people who had attended the wedding. "Does it feel different?" he asked, and Gwen would have brushed it off if there hadn't been a hint of seriousness underneath what he said.

"What's it like, being a royal councillor instead of a manservant?" she asked him instead.

Merlin stopped to think about it for a minute, then pronounced, "Completely different and... _exactly_ the same."

Gwen nodded, her lips curving into a secret smile that she thought Merlin could really only half understand the meaning of.

"Everything's exactly the same it was yesterday," Gwen answered him at last, repeating his own words back to him, "and everything is completely different." Then with a giddy laugh she added, "Maybe nothing in the world has changed and I'm simply a new person wearing the same name."

Then she had felt a helpless wash of gratitude come over her for all the ways that Merlin had contributed to her happiness and Arthur had walked in half an hour later to find the two of them still embracing and Gwen crying into Merlin's ridiculous new robes and both of them laughing through it all and Arthur had beat a hasty retreat until they could decide to act sensible again.

Apart from Merlin and Arthur — apart from the people she was closest to — it seemed like anyone who asked Gwen about her new role in the court were really trying to remind her that she was in a place where she didn't belong — one that she hadn't been born to, and one that no one, except Arthur, or Merlin, or perhaps Elyan, had thought she could ever live up to. So she gritted her teeth and started smiling and saying, "I only hope I will be able to do as well by the people of Camelot as they have always done by me."

It was strange that Sir Rothby would ask her a question like that, though. She had never met him before his arrival with his uncle's party; she would not have expected him to know anything of her past or to harbour any resentment against her. Perhaps he knew nothing about it and merely meant to make a polite inquiry about the new responsibilities that came with her marriage. It was strange, though, that he should sound so exactly like one of the gossiping ladies of the court.

Gwen gave her standard response and was surprised by the scorn with which Sir Rothby replied, "What a charming sentiment. How lucky Camelot is to have _you_ for its queen."

Merlin made a loud exclamation of dismay as he knocked his goblet into Sir Rothby's lap.

"I'm sorry, stupid of me," he said, winking at Gwen over Sir Rothby's head as he tried to mop up the worst of the damage, "I must not have been paying attention."

On Merlin's other side, Gwaine was barely bothering to hide his own amusement at Sir Rothby's predicament as the now thoroughly drenched knight excused himself from the table with an embarrassingly placed stain.

Since Gwaine's arrival at the castle, he had made no secret of the fact that he distrusted Sir Rothby and suspected him of every imaginable plot against Camelot in general — and against Merlin in particular. Gwaine had scarcely left Merlin's side since, even trying to follow him into a private meeting with the king. When he had been strongly dissuaded from intruding on their conference, he still stood outside the council chamber doors for an hour, waiting for the meeting to end, as if he had appointed himself Merlin's personal bodyguard.

It was almost comical to watch him walking down the halls of the castle half a step behind Merlin, who was himself following half a step behind Arthur, who in turn grew quickly irritated and tried to get rid of both of them, assuring them that _he_ had a whole castle full of guards to look after him, and didn't need guard dogs to follow him around. However, Merlin had dug in his heels about wanting to be on hand while the delegation were at Camelot, and Gwaine had dug in his heels about leaving Merlin.

Gwen had taken the only sensible route she could see around this whole farce and instead assigned extra guards for Sir Rothby's protection, on the assumption that even if he did have any malicious intentions, any room containing Arthur, Merlin, Gwaine, and a half a dozen official bodyguards would be too crowded for anyone to so much as swing a sword in.

She didn't know what Sir Rothby could have against Merlin, or her, or anyone at Camelot, but perhaps it was simply a reflection of his uncle's attitudes towards the court. If it was, it didn't bode particularly well for Arthur's negotiations with the Earl, but it seemed to her the greater danger was in the chance of breaking the peace than in any personal threat.

So when she met Sir Rothby on his way out to the practice grounds the next morning, she greeted him as warmly as she could, hoped that he was finding his stay at Camelot pleasant, and that he would have a good day's exercise.

"Oh, I'm sure I will," he said, smirking for what reason Gwen couldn't guess. He swung his sword a few times before him as he walked on past her and Gwen saw his guards flinch back a step or two as if expecting the blade to go wide.

A moment or two later, she ran into Gwaine going in the same direction as Sir Rothby, a determined scowl on his face, and she guessed that he knew where Sir Rothby was headed and was hoping for a bit of unfriendly combat on the training grounds. She could only hope that they both had enough good sense not to beat each other into an unfit state for the night's entertainment.

Gwen left them to their fate and went to find Merlin, who probably wouldn't be going anywhere near the practice grounds now that he could get out of it. She found him, after a long and fruitless search of the places he was supposed to be, in Gaius' rooms, which had been shut up ever since Gaius' replacement had taken one look at them and pronounced them "gloomy and unsanitary" and "not at all in accordance with current medical practice" and taken up residence in a set of rooms on the ground floor behind the kitchens, in a spot that coincidentally afforded him an excellent view of all the pretty serving girls' to-ings and fro-ings.

Merlin had promptly suggested putting the old physician's quarters under lock and key and declaring it off-limits to the inhabitants of the castle, citing the presence of certain dangerous poisons "and, uh, some... medical books that people probably shouldn't be able to get a look at. Uh, including the new court physician. Because some of them are... valuable. And they'd only stir up his allergies anyway. Musty, dusty old things. Very unsanitary, as he says. Probably did me some irreparable damage while I was studying them under Gaius' tutelage."

The rooms had accordingly been locked up against Gaius' possible return, and no one allowed into them since, although Gwen had occasionally spotted Merlin sneaking off in that direction with a furtive look on his face. She was left to suspect that he did not include himself in the category of "people who shouldn't be allowed to get their hands on Gaius' books," based on the number of times she had slipped into his new quarters and found him hurriedly shoving a leather-bound volume out of place. It could be, of course, that he was stealing books from Geoffrey's library as well. The court historian had made several complaints on the subject.

Merlin was currently bent over one of these "medical" texts of Gaius', muttering distractedly to himself and so absorbed in turning through the pages that he didn't notice anyone had come in at all until Gwen came up right behind him, leaned over his shoulder and said, "You don't really think that Sir Rothby could be a golem, do you?"

Merlin jumped about a foot back from the table the book was open on, slammed it shut, and collided rather hard with Gwen, stepping on her foot in the process.

"No one's supposed to be in here!" he yelped a good octave higher than his normal pitch. Then he noticed who it was who had startled him and that she was limping over to a chaise so she could sit down and nurse her injured foot. "Oh, Gwen, I'm so sorry, I didn't know it was you."

"It's all right," Gwen said, wincing as she wiggled her toes around. At least they weren't broken. "I didn't mean to come up on you so suddenly, you were very absorbed in what you were doing."

"I'm trying to figure out why Sir Rothby wants to kill me —" Merlin held up a hand as if to forestall her objections "— I know, I _know_ you thought I was just being silly, and to be honest I did too, but now I'm telling you, there's just something _not right_ going on. I thought he was just a sort of natural menace, knocking things over, and not particularly caring if he set fire to people in the process, but the way he acted when we were out alone in the woods together, I'm telling you, Gwen, that man _hates_ me, and I don't know why."

Much to his relief, Gwen nodded seriously. "I believe you. At least, I believe there's something a little off about him. What he said at dinner the other night — it could have just been youthful sarcasm, but it was also — it was a very _specific_ sort of hostility for someone who's never even met any of us before. It doesn't make any _sense_. I don't think he seems all that much like someone who would risk his own neck to get rid of someone he just didn't like — not openly, anyway. He seems more the sort to hire an assassin to do the dirty work for him. But even that seems a bit extreme for the circumstances."

"I don't know, Gwen, you weren't there in the woods. It was as if — for a while there I was sure that I was his prey, and he didn't care if I knew it. I think — I think he _wanted_ me to be scared of him so he could hunt me down." Merlin shivered at the memory. "And then Gwaine was there, and it was as if nothing had happened. I'm telling you, I don't know whether it was more frightening that he could seem so vicious or that he could hide it so well at a moment's notice."

Gwen frowned. "You don't think he can be — just randomly murderous or anything like that? Or — or working for his uncle? You don't think Rupert wants to — oh, to eliminate Arthur or something? Even if he did, the next person in line for the throne — the one with the most support — would surely be Mor—" she stopped and bit her lip "— anyway, there's no guarantee that whoever took the throne of Camelot would be any more well-disposed towards Northumbria."

"He couldn't want it himself, could he?" Merlin suggested.

"The throne of Camelot?" Gwen said in astonishment. "He couldn't really think it was possible, not with a whole army here with no loyalty to Northumbria at all. He could be thinking that I'd be more likely to be pushed around without Arthur, but really..."

Merlin was nodding along to her reasoning. "Isn't that a little extreme as a negotiating tactic, you mean? Actually killing off the person heading up the other side of the negotiations? When surely all he would have to do is bribe someone here at court to find out whether Arthur's got the stomach for a war over tribute, and I don't think he's done even that. At least I don't think he has — no one's tried to bribe _me_ , anyway," he added, almost a little offended at the thought that someone might not have considered him important enough to at least _try_ to corrupt. "And besides, Rupert's been looking arrogant enough ever since he arrived — _he_ seems to think things will go his way, so what could his nephew possibly be up to?"

"I don't know," Gwen said at last. "I wish I did. It would be nice to have some idea what was going on in my own court, don't you think?"

Merlin sat down next to Gwen, bumping their knees together. "Well, come on, what would life be without a little mystery? Besides, I know something that'll cheer you up." He jostled her affectionately. "Guess what I heard today?"

Gwen raised her eyebrows at him. "What did you hear?"

"Go on," Merlin said, nudging her again, "guess."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "I don't know. Tell me."

" _Lancelot's_ back in Camelot," Merlin announced, sounding very pleased with himself.

Gwen's heart sped up a little despite her very stern directions to it to do nothing of the sort. "Oh yes?" she said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

"Gwaine ran into him on his way here a few days ago. Said they rode together for a while then took different paths. Gwaine thought Lancelot was going to get here first from the way he was behaving — really excited to see his old friends again. Can't imagine why he didn't. Probably got lost in thought, wandering around in the forest, reminiscing..."

Gwen's pulse calmed down a little. "So he isn't actually here in the castle yet?" she asked.

"No, but he's within Camelot's borders, which means he'll be here any time now," Merlin said. "This is going to be great, isn't it? Everyone together again. Lancelot can be a proper knight at last, Arthur won't care who his family was. Him, and Gwaine, and you and Arthur. It's all happening, everyone who should be here will be. It won't matter anymore about the old rules, because it'll be a new sort of place, where everything is better." Merlin had become quite flushed, the tips of his ears practically glowing with his excitement.

"And Arthur will abolish the decree against magic?" Gwen asked gently, reading the unspoken thought behind the words. "Have you asked him about that one yet, Merlin? Or are you only going to ask him to change the rules when it benefits other people? Don't forget that you have friends who want to support you as much as you want to support them."

Merlin ducked his head and began playing with the edge of his tunic with great concentration. "It's not that simple. I can't just — I mean, I know he doesn't think the same things his father did about magic, but it's not just — I can't just ask him to change everything overnight. And he's never known any of the good things that magic can do, the things it could do for Camelot if he'd let — he hasn't seen a sorcerer help him. Not openly."

"Then maybe you should show him one," Gwen said. "I don't mean it has to be — not anyone in particular, not anything big, but, there must be examples of, oh, say, healers and — things like that couldn't be so difficult for him to accept."

Merlin shook his head and choked out, "I _can't_ , Gwen. I know it should be simple just to — even to try to talk about it — but I don't know how. It's been so long and I just can't anymore. I don't know how to start."

"Do you want me to —" she offered, but he just shook his head more vigorously.

"No," he said, "it has to be me, I know that much. Only, let it be when I'm ready?"

"All right," said Gwen, "I don't want to push you, but don't wait too long—" and then she hardened her heart because she had to say it as well "—and don't let somebody else pay the price because they had no one to speak up for them."

"I won't," Merlin said quietly, "I promise."

* * *

"I promise you you're going to regret this," Sir Rothby growled as Gwaine stood laughing at the sidelines. He dropped his sword in disgust at Gwaine's feet. "I don't know what kind of a trick you think this is, but if you try anything like that in knightly combat, I shall see to it that Arthur turns you out of this court like the vagabond you are."

The young Sir Bors merely looked confused at the sudden amount of attention he was receiving. A group of knights had collected around him to clap him on the back and get their share of the laugh while Sir Rothby stormed off to lick his wounds in private.

Gwaine had been inwardly seething about Sir Rothby ever since their first meeting and frustrated at his inability to do anything to knock the smirk off the man's face over the way he had treated Merlin. Despite Merlin's assurances, repeated when Gwaine arrived at Camelot, that Gwaine was presently to become one of the knights of King Arthur's court, he had yet to be knighted and as such could take no direct action against Sir Rothby. As a commoner he could not simply march up to Sir Rothby and challenge him to single combat in defense of Merlin's honour: for one thing it would be an almost treasonous offense for a commoner to challenge a knight; and for another Merlin might not feel entirely comfortable with the idea that his honour needed any defending in the first place. So Gwaine had done the only thing he could: if he couldn't fight the man himself he would arrange for someone else to do it for him.

Sir Bors was one of the youngest of the knights at Camelot. He should properly still have been a squire, learning the values and skills of knighthood at the hand of someone more experienced, but he had the misfortune to be an eldest son who had lost his father when he was far too young, and presented with a noble mantle far too big for his shoulders to fill. Sir Bors was awkward and withdrawn in company, unsure of his place among the other knights, and deplorably easy to manipulate into challenging Sir Rothby to a friendly duel.

Gwaine felt almost guilty at how readily Sir Bors had taken up his suggestion, proud and pleased at being noticed by an old friend of the King and Queen. He had been hesitant, and then flattered, and then eager to do anything to prove to Gwaine that he was capable of besting a knight such as Sir Rothby in a practice bout. The more Sir Rothby scoffed at the prospect of such a puny opponent, the more determined Sir Bors became to show his worth before the others. After the first few nudges they practically did the rest of the work themselves, winding each other up until they had agreed to a very public display on the castle grounds.

It would all have been very unfair on Sir Bors if Gwaine hadn't snuck down to the armoury the night before and nicked Sir Rothby's sword. Not that he had really _stolen_ it as such; if it just happened to turn up a day or two later in one of the pig sheds, it wasn't actually _theft_ , just a convenient temporary inconvenience for the knight who was forced at the last moment, albeit with great disdain, to ask to borrow one. Gwaine had just the thing.

Gwaine had acquired "the bastard sword," as he affectionately called it, in one of those accidents of commerce which can happen to anyone who does their weapons shopping under the influence of a large quantity of good mead and a handsome barkeeper who "just happens to know a travelling weapons merchant." Out of the whole affair the thing Gwaine regretted most was missing his chance to tumble the barkeep because he was too busy being buggered over, figuratively speaking, by his friend the weapons merchant.

He woke the next morning to find himself stripped naked and alone in a hayloft with all his valuables missing, one hell of a hangover, and not even any signs that he would have memories of pleasant debauchery to look forward to when his headache faded. The only possession he had been left was the sword purchased at the cost of all his gold, possessions, and shreds of dignity. At such a price, it would have been agreeable if that one remaining possession had actually turned out to be the piece of master craftsmanship formerly advertised. Instead, the first thing it had done was to try to cut off Gwaine's foot. The first thing Gwaine had done was to yell, "You bastard!" and the name had stuck.

It _was_ a sword, or at least it was a long heavy piece of metal _shaped_ like a sword. It was so perversely weighted, however, that the person likely to take the most damage from its blade was the one grasping its hilt; it had an alarming tendancy to swing in the direction exactly opposite to the one you wanted it to go. Gwaine had worked out how to use it in the only way one could, which was through an act of extreme desperation.

He had paid his tab at the inn the night before his gold was stolen; he had not, however, paid the tab that his friend the barkeep had added up in his name. As the friendly barkeep moreover turned out not so much to be an employee of the inn as a man who had simply been helping himself liberally to the stock throughout the preceding night on the basis of a promise of payment in the morning, the owner of the tavern and — coincidentally — of the hayloft in which Gwaine had awoken alone, friendless, naked, and stripped of all worldy goods, was not best pleased with the man's absence or, indeed, Gwaine's presence.

On the bright side, Gwaine had probably set some records in the thousand yard sprint and discovered a surprising aptitude for the use of his one available weapon. By the time he had reached the next town, wearing nothing but a horse blanket and a pair of breeches cleverly constructed out of feed sacks, The Bastard and he had developed a working, if not a fully amicable, relationship.

The Bastard was not, however, a sword that anyone unfamiliar with its peculiar little homicidal quirks could hope to master without practice. Or at least, not without the practice or the astonishing ingenuity sometimes borne out of situations of absolute mortal peril. Sir Rothby had not had any particular need of superhuman creativity in his match against Sir Bors.

Gwaine picked up The Bastard from where Sir Rothby had tossed it aside and demonstrated a few showy cuts and jabs with it as if to say to the other knights, "How ridiculous to blame this poor ordinary sword for his own mistakes! What a sore loser," thus maintaining the illusion that it was the Bastard was anything like a proper, decent weapon. Once the other men were looking the other way, Gwaine quietly traded it for a more even-tempered blade. It was one thing to be _able_ to use the sword, after all; it didn't mean Gwaine had to _enjoy_ the bizarre muscular contortions necessary to the task.

The Bastard was really a weapon best reserved for the hands of your enemies.

* * *

Lancelot, who was in fact nowhere near Camelot, watched his opponents practising from his narrow window and listened to what snatches of their boisterous conversation drifted up to his tower room. The brothers practised mostly in regular shifts, two of them turning up at a time with the regularity of clockwork, although sometimes all three were present and two of them fought each other while the third looked on and jeered. Lancelot had begun to be able to tell them apart as much by their manoeuvres and their handling of a sword as by what little he could make out of their individual features from a distance.

Sidney, the youngest brother, and the one who had fetched him such a powerful blow to the head according to Elaine's reckoning, was in some ways the least formidable, despite his strength; he was the most easily upset by feints and verbal taunts in combat, and readily induced to overbalance himself, letting his own weight be used against him. Not an impressive opponent in terms of strategy or skill, but dangerous if he were allowed to break through a canny defense with even a single well-aimed blow; Lancelot had seen him lay out one of his brothers upon the ground with a single hit, when the other had dropped his guard for a moment. William had been nursing his right arm in practice the next day, and Lancelot concluded that to make even one mistake when facing Sidney might be enough to disable him for subsequent rounds.

William was the wiliest of the fighters and no doubt more cunning than either of his brothers. He was least likely to shout out comments as he watched the other two engaged in combat, but Lancelot observed that he often said something to his opponent that, though it was beyond the edge of Lancelot's hearing, reached William's opposite well enough to distract him and allow William to land an otherwise unlikely blow. His style was filled with tricks and feints and quick, sudden movements that had him gone, in the blink of an eye, from the space where his opponent thought he should be and into another from which he could strike an undefended spot or an exposed flank with more efficacy. He used the element of surprise greatly to his advantage: an intelligent opponent, and one it would be foolish to underestimate.

And yet Gregory, the one Lancelot had encountered as the black knight, was perhaps the most effective fighter. He possessed neither his youngest brother's brute force in arms nor the other's subtlety in tactics, but he added to a fair combination of both an instinct for deadly and effective action that the others seemed sometimes to lack. He laid no traps and landed no singly devastating blows, but he seemed to sense the direction from which the next attack would come and the best opportunity to land a hit, and wore his opponents down by a long and sustained mastery of his movements which the others could not match. He was the most likely of the three to win the day against either of his brothers, and it was a rare day on which either of the others managed to gain an advantage over him for long enough to score a point.

Lancelot thought he could understand now why his sister said he was so much put out of countenance by Gwaine's unforeseen attack in the woods. It was no less than Lancelot had felt, no doubt, on being taken unawares by Sidney, whom by all rights he now felt he should have been able to beat in fair and open combat. It was facing Gregory that concerned him most, and he was both glad and sorry to hear that Gregory would be the final of his opponents; glad that he would have the chance to exercise his skills against the others rather than facing Gregory directly after so many days of idle recovery, but sorry to think that any weariness or injury gained from the first two trials might make itself a deciding factor in fighting Gregory in the third.

He took pains to note those occasions on which Gregory's instincts and skills failed him, and found it was most often William who could manage to get underneath his defenses. It was not so much William's cleverly contrived tricks and stratagems that succeeded as his extraordinary speed that sometimes caught his brother off-guard, despite his good instincts, before he could shield himself from a new line of attack. It also seemed that Gregory was not insusceptible to William's verbal jabs, although he fell prey to that sort of distraction less easily than Sidney. Yet once or twice Lancelot saw Gregory forget his defense and attack so wildly, leaving himself open to attack, that Lancelot could only conclude that some unheard taunt of William's had hit its mark far better than his blade.

Lancelot suspected, although it was a tactic he was loath to use unless he were forced to it, that a reminder or two of Gregory's humiliating and unforeseen defeat in the forest might prove a more effective weapon than any other. He also prepared as best he could a line of defense and counterattack for himself that might work against their various styles of combat, based on observing the particular movements they favoured.

The thought that he was able to observe their practices so closely did not seem to occur to the brothers and Lancelot rather wondered sometimes if they had forgotten he was there at all, or did not know how the location of his room allowed him such a good view of their fighting in advance. Lancelot, determined not to confer the same advantage on them, did not insist on his own chance to use the practice grounds, instead running ceaselessly through what exercises he could in the privacy of his own room, pausing only when he felt a return of the pain and disorientation that sometimes still came over him from the blow to his head.

Although he had been given the freedom of the castle, it was still clear to Lancelot that he was no honoured — or indeed welcome — guest, and his appearance was greeted with some suspicion as he roamed the halls of the castle. It seemed that everyone living within the castle walls had by now heard some garbled account of his arrival here and that he was generally considered to be, at best, the unworthy suitor, and, at worst, the infamous abductor of the king's daughter.

He had found out, at least, that the name of the castle was Corbin, and from that had been able to place it within one of the smaller kingdoms that bordered Camelot's lands. What was more, it was well over a two-day ride from Camelot, so his injury must have been more serious than he thought to have kept him unconscious for the time it took to make the journey.

He slept poorly — not because the bed was little more than a hard pallet raised up off the floor, for he had slept on much worse, but because he was troubled by dreams in which he continually rode towards Camelot and was turned or driven off by some invisible force. Camelot seemed to him as an inevitable destination that remained nevertheless firmly out of reach, no matter what he tried.

In his waking hours, he had begun to doubt himself in his reasons for staying. He had seen little of the lady Elaine since the day he had awoken and he had no idea if she still regarded his presence with the same matter-of-fact acceptance of necessity as before or if she had come to regret the idea of a stranger vying for her hand. Her father had visited Lancelot the day after their original conversation, but he seemed mostly concerned with practical arrangements, offering to have the blacksmith's assistant come to check over his borrowed armour (which Lancelot now knew to belong rightfully to the lady Elaine) for proper fit and condition, but Lancelot found it already an almost perfect fit. It was easy to see how it could have been mistaken for his own; a hauberk made to his own measure could scarcely have fitted him better.

The only person Lancelot met with any regularity was Timothy, the boy of whom the lady Elaine had seemed so fond, and who brought him his meals while he stayed there. Lancelot tried once or twice to engage him in conversation, but he seemed shy and rarely spoke if he could avoid answering. Besides Timothy's perfunctory visits to his room, or the occasional encounter as he walked outside to calm his restless legs, most of the people Lancelot saw were from a distance.

There was one figure in particular who intrigued him: a boy, he could not have said who, who snuck out into the practice grounds at night after Pelles' sons had quitted it and when the darkness hid the greatest part of his activity from any chance onlookers. He practised sometimes late into the night, long after Lancelot had gone to bed and risen again out of restlessness. There was something about the way the boy moved that seemed familiar, as if Lancelot had seen him before, and he did sometimes wonder if it might be Timothy who made his secret forays into the forbidden world of knightly combat. It made Lancelot smile to think of another young boy born to a common place in life pursuing the same unlikely dream that he had held when he was young.

Yet the grace and fluidity of the boy's movement seemed to speak against it being the serving boy, who could hardly be so gawky and uncoordinated during the day and then acquire such skill of quick and deadly motion at night. The moves of the figure in the courtyard were practised and sure, although some of them had a formal air of study that suggested they had not often been tried against a real opponent. And yet despite this, Lancelot thought this mysterious boy might make a more interesting swordsman to face than all three of Pelles' sons put together; there was a better combination of strength with purpose, and of thought combined with instinct, that might do more when it was tried than all the over- or under-conscious strategies of any one of the brothers.

One night when Lancelot was feeling particularly restless, he spotted the boy in the yard and crept down the stairs meaning to watch from closer at hand. He followed the stairs down, cautious in the dark, wary of his unfamiliar surroundings and taking care not to waken anyone in the household. Despite his precautions, he took a few wrong turns and nearly ended up falling into the privy. By the time he had successfully retraced his misstep and found his way out to the yard, Lancelot half-expected to find the boy long gone. The solitary figure was still there, though, moving through the same carefully articulated series of steps.

Lancelot couldn't make out much more of the boy's features, even from closer at hand, as the darkness and shadows of the surrounding building still obscured everything but the barest outlines of his movements. Rather than reveal himself and interrupt the boy's practice, Lancelot found a spot sheltered beneath the lintel of the stair door and leaned there for a while to watch. He might have remained unnoticed the whole night, but that the figure stopped in the middle of one sequence to curse in frustration and at the same time stood near enough in the dim moonlight for Lancelot to recognize the face and the voice together.

"Lady Elaine?" He spoke aloud without meaning to. The figure whipped round wildly, looking in a panic for the source of the voice, and in the process of trying to retreat to a more sheltered position unfortunately ran right into Lancelot's own hiding place.

"You—!" she exclaimed and, "let go of me, I'll have you —" as he tried to muffle her exclamations of surprise. She kicked him in the shins for his trouble, until he was forced to let her go and step out into the yard, letting the light hit his face and hoping that no one had been woken by their voices and inspired to look out into the courtyard.

"Oh, it's _you_ ," Elaine said scornfully once she had got a look at him. "I thought it was someone who mattered." She seemed to dismiss him as quickly from her thoughts as if he had vanished, and strode on past him to continue with her interrupted exercise.

Lancelot watched with some disbelief, but she seemed to take no more notice of his existence, and as no one looked out from the windows around them to make inquiries, he concluded that they had not raised any general alarm. Indeed, as he looked about himself he found there were not many windows that did open onto the yard besides his own. Most of the others faced in a slantwise direction that overlooked the walls and outside of the keep — the one or two that did face inwards were boarded up.

"You're dropping your elbow," he observed as Elaine emitted another noise of frustration partway through her series of repeated steps.

She looked at him as if he had just begun speaking in a strange and unknown dialect.

"Your right elbow," he repeated, "every time you turn, you let it drop a little, that's why you lose control of the blade like that."

She regarded him suspiciously, as if waiting to see to what fresh disaster this advice might lead, and began the sequence again more slowly.

"There," he said when she came to the same point again and the sword's weight threw her out of balance. "You just did it again — you've got to keep it higher up."

Elaine glared at him. "My elbow is exactly where it's supposed to be."

"Very well, then," Lancelot said, "if you're so sure of yourself, attack me"

She looked sceptical. "You don't have a sword. It might not look good if I killed you in the middle of the night and left your body sprawled across the courtyard."

"So I tried to abduct you again and this time you resisted," Lancelot suggested. "Only I won't be in an danger because you're _dropping your elbow_."

She glared at him again and said, "Fine, ready to die now?"

He gave a mock bow. "At your command, my lady," he said, then ducked because she had begun to move forward again already, swiftly threatening to decapitate him. He backed away slowly, keeping just out of range of her blade as she stepped forward through the sequence.

Then she came to the turn, her elbow dropped, and Lancelot ducked under the wavering sword to grab her forearm and twist it, forcing the hilt out of her grasp. He caught it neatly in his other hand and went into an _en guard_ position.

"Would you like to try to kill me again now?" he asked.

Elaine looked furious, almost ready to go on the offensive despite the sword that was now pointed in the wrong direction for it. However she merely watched intently as Lancelot began to go through the same series of moves, deliberately letting his elbow drop at the same moment as Elaine had done. She pounced on the opening and almost before he knew what had happened, she had the sword out of his hand again and held against his throat, a look of childish glee on her face.

"So what exactly would you do to stop me slitting your throat?" she demanded.

He held out his hand for the sword, which she offered him hilt-first this time, and demonstrated the move in slow motion, maintaining an excessive degree of formal correctness throughout and keeping his elbow much higher than was strictly necessary. She laughed at him.

"You look ridiculous," Elaine told him, "like a chicken."

"You're too kind," Lancelot said with half a bow. "I am, however, a chicken who could fell you with a single stroke if you tried to get close enough to take my sword from me. I don't recommend you try it." He let his arm drop dramatically so that his elbow was almost level with his knee. "And this," he said, "is what you were doing. Alive —" he lifted his arm exaggeratedly up to the level of his ear "— dead —" and dropped it again, repeating the motion until he did indeed look like a chicken flapping its wing.

Elaine laughed at him some more, but after a few more repetitions she darted in and grabbed the sword back when his grip was weakest. She repeated the set motions over and over, lifting her arm higher as she turned until the whole blade moved in a controlled arc as she wished it to.

"Now come here and try that dodge again," she said with an unholy grin.

Lancelot laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "No fear, my lady, I value my neck too much to test it. Your sword is safe for now."

"I have decided to let you live for the moment," Elaine declared magnanimously, lowering the sword. "You could yet turn out to be useful."

"You haven't had much experience facing off against a skilled opponent, have you?" Lancelot guessed.

Elaine scowled. "After I got past the age of about ten my father insisted that I stop wasting my time playing with my brothers. Before that I could have beaten any one of them, but since we've got older the only person I've had to practice with is Tim, and he can't do much more than play at fighting. Meanwhile they work at it every day and they have each other to learn from. There's only so much you can do with the diagrams in ' _The Arte of Knightly Combatte_ ', you know, and they certainly don't fight back or insult your posture — oh damn," she said out of nowhere, "take this and put it away, won't you? Greg will make a fuss over it if it goes missing."

Lancelot caught the sword she tossed at him — thankfully without injury — and started, "What do you —"

"I've got to _go_ ," Elaine said, "I'm not supposed to be out at night, and Dame B. will have a fit. It's the third door on the left," she said with apparent irrelevance, "try not to wake Bernhard, he's a light sleeper!" and with that she had vanished back into the castle.

It wasn't until he began to look about for the door she'd mentioned that Lancelot noticed what she had: the pre-dawn light was already growing, and he was standing alone in the open air holding a sword that had, presumably, been stolen from his host's armoury. He hastened into the shadow of the building and searched for the mysterious third door.

Lancelot tried the first entrance he found, hoping it concealed a corridor with at least three doors and a sleeping guard named Bernhard behind it. It turned out instead to be the door to a root cellar, which he determined by banging his head on the low ceiling and fetching up face-first in a barrel of rutabagas.

Through the next door he found his horse, which he was pleased to find had after all been brought with him and put in the castle stables. He patted Ambulatrix affectionately. She opened a single sleepy eye, regarded him with brief approval, and went back to sleep. He left her to her slumbers. His next try led to another courtyard, identical in all but size to the one he had left, being a good deal larger. The next door led to a covered walkway which, he was pleased to discover, contained a superfluity of doors. The third door on his left he opened carefully, mindful of the sleeping Bernhard, and found himself in the castle armoury.

Seeing no sign of a guard, he took his time looking over the weapons racks until he found the empty place where Gregory's sword must have resided. A long table beneath it held the various pieces of chainmail that must belong to Pelles' family; that hauberk could only have been made to fit Sidney's girth and broad shoulders. He was surprised to note a fourth set of armour — the one designated for him to wear in the tournament — that had been laid out alongside the rest. It was Elaine's, of course, and it occurred to him that this was probably the first time all four siblings' sets of armour had been set out together like this, and how much more appropriate it would be if the last suit were there awaiting its proper owner and not set aside for a chance interloper to use.

He would have liked to stay and admire the craftsmanship of the individual pieces, but the hour was growing later and the absent guard might not be absent long. Besides, the sons of Pelles began their training early in the day, as he had had occasion to witness from the clanging that ofttimes woke him from his bed. Lancelot turned to go and as he did he trod upon something soft. An instant later a loud and querulous yelping arose from under the table.

Bernhard, it turned out, was a guard _dog_ , and whatever his normal disposition, he did not take kindly to having his tail stepped on. Few animals, in Lancelot's experience, ever did.

Lancelot tried a placatory "good dog" and a "nice Bernhard" and, when the beast still would not be quiet, attempted to edge towards the exit, but Bernhard was having none of it. He followed at Lancelot's heels, barking furiously, and snapping whenever Lancelot made a movement towards the door. After several agonizing minutes,the door opened and a friendly looking guard opened the door and came in pike-first.

"Ah, right," Lancelot said, his empty hands held out in a conciliatory gesture, "I can explain."

"Intruder in the armoury!" the guard cried out, paying no heed to Lancelot's frantic shushing noises, and soon it seemed as though the whole castle were echoing with the phrase. The only person who was likely to sleep through it, Lancelot thought a little resentfully, was the lady Elaine.

A handful of other assorted guards, some of them not even fully dressed yet, crowded around to lend their support to their fellow while Bernhard ran around Lancelot's ankles, barking happily at his captured prey. It was in this ludicrous situation that Sidney found Lancelot when he arrived to investigate the hubbub.

"That's all right, Ed," said Sidney to one of the guards, whose trousers were hanging a little precariously about his hips. "It's nothing to be alarmed about, just our visitor. Yes, thank you for getting here so quickly, Simon, I can take it from here."

From up close, Sidney had a broad, affable face and it was one the guards clearly respected, because they shuffled off on their business with courteous nods and nary a discontented murmur at being deprived of their captive, leaving Lancelot alone with Sidney and the guard dog.

The dog proved to be another among Sidney's admirers; Sidney whistled once, a short low note, and the barking mass of teeth and confusion fell quiet in an instant, returning docilely to his place beneath the table, where he curled up with his tail around his body to continue his morning nap.

Sidney looked as embarrassed as Lancelot felt about their meeting. The tips of his ears, sticking out of a nest of brown and curly hair, were tinged a deep pink.

"Sorry about all the ruckus," he said, "should have thought you'd want to get in here. Suppose you'll want all the practice you can get before the contest?"

Lancelot, who could think of nothing he wanted less at the moment than more practice, balked internally at the idea, but agreed because he could think of no better excuse for his presence.

"Well then," Sidney said with a cheerful grin, clapping his alarmingly muscular hands together, "let's get you ready, shall we?"

Lancelot, despairing silently of polite escape, allowed himself to be dragged around the armoury and equipped for a full and rigorous workout.

Sidney began gathering up his own armour, saying, "We've got your sword and things somewhere around — oh, here, the other bits and bobs will be in the stables, I expect. Though, um," he added, looking askance at the rather dinged and worn sword that Lancelot produced from his reclaimed belongings, "if you'd prefer to borrow one of mine..."

Lancelot shook his head. This blade had seen him through grimmer times than this young man — not yet even fully grown, for all his early bulk and muscle — could possibly have seen in his lifetime.

"Well, there's a smith in town if you want the edge sharpened —" Sidney halted at that train of thought, perhaps recalling that he was one of the people on whom its keenness was to be tested.

They prepared in silence after that, Lancelot feeling more and more the weariness of an already long night's work. Sidney kept stealing what he must have thought were subtle glances in Lancelot's direction, but were actually quite obvious, watching him closely until they strode out into the yard together.

Lancelot didn't last long against him. Fatigue did the work of a millstone dragging him down and he stumbled beneath a barely skillful blow from Sidney in the first bout.

Sidney offered him a hand up afterwards with all good grace. Lancelot rather got the impression that Sidney had knocked his feet out from under him as gently as he could manage, and Lancelot was suitably grateful for the effort.

"Listen, I'm sorry about knocking you out like that — not just now, I mean, though that too, but back in the woods, really," Sidney said in a rush, and for the first time Lancelot could really see the resemblance to his sister; hers was clearly a garrulous family. "Only we didn't know, you see, what had really happened. Greg had only told us some story about being ambushed in the woods and something about you behaving badly to Elaine and, well, all I wanted to say is, if you're the one she wants to run away with that's all right by me, and I'm sorry about all this other business. I'll do my best not to kill you in the tournament if I can help it, though you may want to get some practice between now and then if you want to make a decent show of it — and before you face the others, especially Greg. He hasn't got over things yet and it looks as though you need the practice pretty badly." He came to a stop at last, exuding amiability and good intent, though still a little pink from his joint exertion and embarrassment.

Lancelot thanked him kindly for his advice, accepted yet another apology for getting his skull bashed with a rock which Sidney "never thought would hit him _that_ hard" and climbed the tower stairs to collapse on his bed.

Well, he thought, during his last moments of consciousness before his head hit the pillow, if he had wanted to convince the brothers that he wasn't a threat in combat, he had just succeeded.


	4. Chapter 4

"Merlin," Arthur began in the patient tone of one who is not looking forward to the answer, "is there any particular reason why the Earl of Northumbria has asked, as a special favour to his nephew, for your friend Gwaine's head on a plate?"

"I can't imagine," Merlin said. He spoke as innocently as someone could who had been sharing a conspiratorial laugh with Gwaine only about five minutes earlier, which was to say, not very innocently at all. "His nephew must be a little over-sensitive. It wasn't even Gwaine he lost that practice match against, it was Bors — or so I heard," Merlin added hastily, scavenging what he could of the illusion that he had no inside information on the matter. "So, nope, can't think of a thing."

"Try a little harder," Arthur suggested.

"Weeeeeeeell," Merlin said, "there may also have been a rather top-heavy sword and a few jibes about Sir Rothby, hmm, not being able to keep it up?"

Arthur buried his face in his hands. "I am _trying_ to negotiate some sort of a working relationship with the head of a large and very nearly independent territory with whom our current relations are tenuous at best, and on whose good will the security of a significant portion of our border relies, and you and Gwaine thought that this would be an opportune time for baiting his presumptive heir and making jabs about erectile dysfunction?"

"Technically I didn't do anything," Merlin pointed out. "How could I? I wasn't even there." He had, just possibly, been there when Gwaine had slipped his own, special sword in amongst the others and he might just have given the metal a bit of a ... hint ... of a magical push in the right direction to making it rather... implausibly unresponsive to Sir Rothby's control. Now didn't seem like a good time to bring that up, though. _Never_ might, in fact, be a better time for that particular revelation. "Besides, it seems to me to be something that couldn't have happened to a nicer person."

"Sometimes," said Arthur, "I wonder if anything I say actually penetrates your skull, or if your ears are there simply as decoration. It doesn't matter if Sir Rothby is _nice_ , he is _powerful_ , or at least his uncle is and someday he may be himself, so you have got to be careful around him. I wouldn't want the thought that I might actually care whether you live or die to go to your head, but I don't suppose it's occurred to you that if you _had_ been present at the match, Northumbria could just as easily have been asking for your head on a silver platter."

"You're not actually going to turn Gwaine over to them?" Merlin asked, feeling suddenly queasy. "Arthur, you can't, he —"

"Of course I'm not," Arthur said, "the man saved my life — more than once, loath as I am to admit it. That doesn't change the fact that the entire incident is politically very, very inconvenient."

"Don't you think it would be even more politically inconvenient to kill off your allies?" Merlin asked.

"So you are paying attention, Merlin," Arthur said, pleased. "Good, and now you understand why I don't try to wring your neck in public. I hope you didn't think it was because you weren't provoking me anymore."

"Don't worry," said Merlin jovially, "when you start showing unconditional concern for my well-being, I'll know it's because you've been replaced by an impostor. I still don't trust Sir Rothby, though," he added more seriously. "He's up to something."

"Of course he's up to something," Arthur said, not bothering to restrain the sarcasm in his voice, "he's part of a political delegation. Gwen tells me that even Lady Lavinia seems to be scheming at something."

"Maybe she means to take over Camelot using a new and exciting collection of knitting techniques," Merlin suggested.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's right, I'll tell Gwen to stop worrying, you've figured out Northumbria's secret bargaining tactics."

"Arthur, please though, this is serious," Merlin insisted.

"I _know_ that, but what are you planning to do, follow Sir Rothby around the castle in case he does something suspicious?" Arthur asked.

Merlin got a dangerously speculative look in his eye.

"Merlin, no, that was a joke," Arthur said quickly.

"Back in a tick," Merlin called out over his shoulder, "I've just got to check on something."

"Merlin! Merlin, no, come back here! That's an order!" Arthur shouted after him. "This is a very bad idea!"

Merlin was already disappearing down the corridor, however, and paid him no heed. When it was clear that he was well and truly gone, Arthur returned to the activity which had occupied him before Merlin's arrival, which was a detailed study of certain old maps and charters relating to the position of Northumbria. He read the formal, looping script of the documents at length, pausing frequently to rub at his temples where he was worried by a headache that had nothing to do with reading the letters on the page before him.

* * *

"Are you _following_ me?" Sir Rothby demanded incredulously the fourth time he walked around a corner and found Merlin nonchalantly examining an ordinary patch of wall.

"What, me?" Merlin asked in exaggerated surprise, turning and ostentatiously looking behind him for some other possible lurker in the castle corridor. Finding them to be alone, he turned back to face Sir Rothby with wide, astonished eyes. "Whyever would I be following you?"

Sir Rothby barely restrained a growl. "Perhaps you and your little friends should stay out of my way," he suggested. "I didn't come here to be pestered by nuisance servants, and if you haven't got the good sense to keep out of my way, I may just end up doing something that _you_ will regret."

"I'm not afraid of you," said Merlin boldly. "You're nothing but a bully with a big sword. Whatever it is you're planning, I'll stop it."

Sir Rothby laughed a mean little laugh. "If you don't even know what you think I'm planning, how do you expect to stop me, exactly?"

"It doesn't matter," Merlin said stubbornly, "I'll figure it out."

"Let me make things a little easier for you," said Sir Rothby. "For the next two hours I thought I might go to my rooms and construct devious plots of unspecified design. If you would like to stand outside my chambers and press your ear against the door in the hope that I will begin reciting a list of my evil schemes, feel free to do so. Otherwise you might accidentally spend that time doing something useful, like scrubbing the floors."

With that, he swept off, leaving Merlin alone in the hall. Merlin followed after him closely enough to see Sir Rothby's door shut emphatically in his face. He lingered outside it in the corridor until he was sure that Sir Rothby didn't intend to slip out the moment his back was turned, and when there was no sign of further movement finally gave up today's investigations as bootless.

If he had stayed a little longer, he might have seen the Lady Lavinia slip into Sir Rothby's rooms, but try as he might on Sir Rothby's suggestion he would not have heard a single sound slip through the cracks in the door.

As soon as the Lady Lavinia entered she whispered, "Are we alone?"

Sir Rothby nodded, and at once Lady Lavinia lifted her hands and spoke a word that made the slightest whisper of air from the open windows die away to nothing, as at the same time all noise from the outside world ceased. She brought her hands down with an expression of satisfaction.

"Now, sister, what have you learned?" Lady Lavinia asked.

"Arthur does not fight in the tournament," Sir Rothby said. "All the knights can talk of is who will take his place as Camelot's foremost knight."

"But you said, you were sure—" Lady Lavinia said in consternation.

"I _was_ ," Sir Rothby snapped. "This is as much of a disappointment for me as it is for you. I don't understand it, it isn't like Arthur to hold himself back like this. I don't know why he wouldn't want to fight."

"Perhaps he means to protect the succession," Lady Lavinia suggested. "Until he sires an heir — or better, two — there is no guarantee for him that the Pendragon line will continue. Perhaps he does not mean to risk that now he is king."

"There is one guarantee —" Sir Rothby said.

Lady Lavinia only shook her head.

"You do not begin to doubt my claim, surely?" said Sir Rothby.

"Of course not. But there is no guarantee that Arthur's knights will follow you — this is what we have learned to our cost. Without some outside force to threaten its security, Camelot's people will never accept you as their Queen. They will follow Guinevere or even risk falling into chaos and civil war while they choose a new lord to lead them before they will accept the traitor daughter back into their midst. You _know_ all this."

" _Gwen_ ," said Sir Rothby scornfully. "If the kingdom were ever in need of dress hemming or flower cutting they would be right to look to her."

"Do not underestimate her, sister. I have spent the last four days talking with her and there is no doubt in my mind that she understands the intrigues and politics of the court as well as you or I."

"You have been talking to her," Sir Rothby said derisively, "about _lace_. I hardly think that is an accurate measure of anyone's political acumen. She is a pretty servant who my brother has chosen to warm his bed, no more."

"And if you do not wish her to become the mother of the next Pendragon king, you must find a way to convince Arthur to enter the tournament," Lady Lavinia insisted. "Or you will no longer be the last of the Pendragon line."

"I don't see why we can't just break into his chambers at night and kill them both," Sir Rothby said petulantly.

"For the same reasons you could not simply lead an army against him. Any doubt about the instigator of his death would only cast suspicion on you. It must be done in open combat and in a way that invites no apprehension of conspiracy on your part. Then when you lead our armies against Northumbria you will be able to rally the support of Arthur's loyal followers, enraged over his death at the hands of a former ally, and at last claim your proper place as ruler of Camelot. Have patience, sister," Lady Lavinia said and then added in warning, "but not too much. The tournament is in five days. Entice Arthur to enter the lists himself by then, or all our planning will have come to nought."

"I will not fail in this," Sir Rothby promised. "Arthur's head is mine."

"See that you do not," said Lady Lavinia. "Apart from anything else, I grow tired of talking about lace."

Sir Rothby snorted. "At least you are not pretending to be a man. I swear, if one more knight gives me a hearty slap on the back and makes insinuations about 'wenching', I am going to break his fingers." He paused thoughtfully. "And possibly some other things as well. At least you get to stop talking about clothes. At the end of the day, I'm still stuck in — this." He waved a hand over his body.

"Do you have any idea how many lace patterns I've looked at since we got here?" Lady Lavinia asked darkly.

"At least you have a choice about that. You could always say you're tired of it and change the subject," Sir Rothby pointed out reasonably.

"You haven't read the Lady Lavinia's letters," said Lady Lavinia. "The woman _never_ gets tired of talking about lace, and I must maintain the illusion before those who know her."

"Just five more days," Sir Rothby said, like reciting a mantra.

"Just five more days," Lady Lavinia repeated. "Be careful."

* * *

Lancelot reacted the way that anyone would if someone snuck into their room in the dead of night with a sword. That is to say, not well.

When you have slept in the kind of inns where coin purses are considered an invitation to find yourself stabbed in the middle of the night and the inn keeper as often as not takes a percentage of the dead man's purse, you learn to sleep lightly no matter how tired you are. So when the door to his room creaked ever so slightly as it opened, Lancelot was wide awake in a heartbeat without moving an inch.

The intruder wasn't carrying a light, which was suspicious enough in itself. People just didn't sneak around in a dark tower at the dead of night unless they _really_ had something to hide; Lancelot didn't think that someone had decided to bring him a midnight snack. A barely visible silhouette detached itself from the wall, then slid the door shut. There was a flash of light as it did, and Lancelot was sure that nothing could have created that long, thin sliver of reflected moonlight but a sword. He tensed in readiness, preparing to spring as well as he could from a prone position.

He had at least had the foresight to bring his own sword back with him to his room after the practice round with Sidney, despite offers to return it to the armoury. It was sitting on the table halfway across the room, though, carefully swaddled in cloth. If the intruder would only keep between Lancelot and the window, leaving him free on the other side to reach his sword — no such luck. The figure crept up between Lancelot and his weapon, leaving Lancelot between it and the light, peering into the blackness. Lancelot listened for the slightest hint of a footfall by his bed, reached out, and swung blindly into the darkness, connecting with something soft.

"Ow," it said.

Lancelot took the chance to pounce, knocking whoever it was off their feet and clearing a path to his weapon. He seized it and approached the person he had knocked down, ready to strike if necessary.

"Do you always over-react to people like this?" Elaine's petulant voice demanded. "Do you have any idea how many bruises I'm going to have tomorrow?"

Lancelot exhaled and ordered his muscles to relax as much as they could; the adrenaline of fear was still running through his veins. "What are you doing here?" he asked, more or less calmly.

"You were late," Elaine said. "Aren't you going to offer to help me up?"

He groped around in the dark until he found her outstretched arm and helped her up to sit on the bed.

"You were supposed to be in the courtyard to help me practise tonight," Elaine said. "I've been waiting for hours."

Lancelot, who couldn't remember having promised anything about spending a second night in a row traipsing around a dark practice yard after midnight, calculated the chances that, if he just put his head back down on the pillow, this would all turn out to be a dream.

Elaine poked him in the ribs, happily missing the worst of the places where he was bruised from fighting Sidney during the day. He supposed he should be grateful she wasn't poking him with a sword.

"Perhaps you'll excuse me for tonight, until I have a chance to recover from being knocked down by your brother — again," he added with particular emphasis.

"What, you didn't try to fight Sidney today, did you?" Elaine asked. "That was foolish. He's not the cleverest fighter, but he can hit things very hard. It's better to be alert if you're going to offer yourself up as a target. You must have been falling over your own feet."

"I didn't exactly offer to fight him," Lancelot pointed out. "It was more that he found me in an awkward position. Returning that sword you 'borrowed'," he elaborated when she said nothing.

"Oh, that," said Elaine. Lancelot waited for some acknowledgment of her own culpability, but she just said, "I did warn you not to wake Bernhard."

Lancelot took a deep breath and said, "I cannot train against your brothers during the day, and you at night, if I am to face them in a trial of combat in a few days' time."

"Fine, forget I was even here," Elaine said, sounding cross. "I'll just practise on my own as usual, and then in a few days when you're gone, or better yet dead, I'll go on practising alone, and that'll be fine too." The bed shifted beside him as she got up to go, and her footsteps retreated toward the door.

"Wait," said Lancelot, already regretting what he was about to say. "Tomorrow night, after we have both had a day to rest. I suppose you were not idle today any more than I was?"

"Oh, Dame B. woke me appallingly early and made me read Latin homilies while she dozed off in her chair, and then there were the usual things to be done around the keep with the servants and the—" Elaine yawned suddenly "—preparations for the tournament."

"Tomorrow, then," Lancelot repeated. "As soon as it's quiet. And not the whole night. I still need to prepare for the tournament myself."

"Will you attack me when I come in then, as well?" Elaine asked, as if this were a thoroughly unreasonable response to someone sneaking into his rooms in the dead of night.

Lancelot thought about waiting for another creeping shadow to skulk in at the entrance to his room and said, "No, out in the yard, where I can be sure it's you and not someone else coming up here to do me mischief."

"Who else could I have been? You didn't think I was Greg come up to ambush you in the night, did you?" Lancelot said nothing and Elaine laughed. "You did! How funny. I don't think you have to worry about _Greg_ sneaking into your rooms in the middle of the night. He'd _hate_ for you to be secretly murdered; most of the fun for him is being able to boast about things afterward. He'd much rather grind you to a pulp in front of an audience." And then reaching out to pat Lancelot's arm somewhat inaccurately in the dark, she added, "But don't worry, he won't really want to kill you because he prefers being able to gloat over the people he's beaten and so it's less fun if you're dead."

Lancelot found this a singularly uncomforting thought, and said so as politely as he could.

"I can't help that. Besides, if you want to know how to beat them, you'll just have to show up tomorrow night for practice so I can tell you how to make Gregory drop his guard. William likes to think he's the only one who can, but I could do it every time. Well," she paused, "I used to be able to do it when we were ten, but I don't _think_ he's got that much better since then. Not really."

Lancelot groaned and let himself collapse back onto the bed. Despite all his earlier alertness, he was asleep again before he heard her shut the door.

* * *

"Merlin, has there been any word of — oh, I'm sorry." Gwen said as she burst into Merlin's rooms, then drew up short at the sight of the half-naked man who _wasn't_ Merlin standing in the middle of them.

"No, please don't go," Gwaine said with a bright and flirtatious grin, "you've improved the beauty of the room a hundred times just by coming in. And I'm sure Merlin wouldn't want to miss you."

"Is Merlin here then?" Gwen asked, "I didn't see him." She looked around half-expecting Merlin to pop out from behind the door. It wasn't _that_ far-fetched; Merlin did that sort of thing sometimes and it was a good excuse not to look at Gwaine's chest, which was firm, well-muscled and a completely inappropriate thing for a married woman to be looking at.

Gwaine jerked his head towards the closed bedroom door behind him. "He's just getting some things ready, you know, in the other room. Excuse my informal dress, we were just — in the middle of something."

"Oh — _oh_ ," said Gwen, flustered and embarrassed, "I don't want to intrude if you're — maybe I should just —"

She made a move toward the door, but it had inexplicably moved from where she had thought it was and she groped in vain for a door handle along the bare unyielding wall. Gwaine, conversely, had made no move of any kind, including any to cover himself. He just stood there, arms akimbo, in the middle of the room, as if he were a statue on a pedestal. Gwen tried not to think about why he was doing that in Merlin's rooms.

"Don't feel obliged to go on my account," he said, "I'd be happy to have you stay for this."

"Er—" said Gwen. He probably meant — he probably just meant — Gwen's brain panicked and fled, deserting her traitorously.

"Gwen, was that you?" asked Merlin, or rather his voice, which emerged from a heap of clothes that were precariously making their way into the room.

Gwen's brain re-emerged and gave her a helpful shove. "Oh! Clothes! Of course, Merlin's helping you dress for the ceremony." A number of wild speculations about Merlin and Gwaine being naked together in his bedroom chased themselves out of her mind; Merlin was decently clothed beneath the tottering pile of garments and showed no signs of having been otherwise.

"If we can find a shirt that he doesn't say scratches, itches, or looks ridiculous," Merlin complained cheerfully. "I swear, it feels like he's been taking his clothes off for hours now, he can't keep a shirt on for more than a second. At this rate he's going to have to be knighted in nothing at all. We'll have to call you the Naked Knight," he told Gwaine, dropping a rich blue shirt over the man's head and manhandling the knight-to-be until he could reach the ties at the neck. He bent over them with his lip caught between his teeth in an expression of intense concentration, as if he had actually forgotten how to put a shirt on someone else in the last six months.

Gwaine seemed equally fascinated with watching Merlin and his fumbling hands and something in his look made Gwen wonder if she had been as far off in her speculations as she thought. She coughed discreetly to remind them of her presence and Gwaine started at the sound, though Merlin just kept working steadily at the laces.

"I feel like a fraud in all this finery," Gwaine said by way of excuse. "I've spent all my life running away from these trappings. Now here I am, dressing up as a knight, when I'd be more comfortable standing stark naked in the middle of a bar-room brawl."

"Then you'd better not wear anything at all to the ceremony," said Gwen gravely. "Not if you feel it would be dishonest."

"Do you think Arthur would object?" Gwaine asked her with a wink that she pretended not to see.

"It isn't _exactly_ what he meant by formal attire..." said Gwen, "but let it not be said that the court of Camelot isn't open to new ideas. I'll be sure to mention it to Arthur. Who knows? You might start a fashion."

"There, you're all done," Merlin announced, finishing with the laces and dropping a tunic over Gwaine's head, "and if you try to take that one off before this evening I'll — I'll have Arthur throw you in the stocks. Or muck out the stables, he likes making people do that."

Gwen giggled. "Do you remember when Lancelot —"

"Yeah," Merlin laughed, "poor man, he really had to work for that knighthood."

As the humour bubbled down, Gwen felt worry slide back in to take its place. "Actually, that's what I came to see you about. There hasn't been any word of him?"

Merlin shook his head. "I'm sure he'll be here soon, Gwen, you know he wouldn't miss this."

"He might." Gwen worried instinctively at her lower lip. She could remember all too clearly the feeling of being left behind in a cold, dark forest without even a hint of a "fare thee well." The memory still stung. "He might have decided that he didn't — that this wasn't really what he wanted."

"That wasn't why he left," Merlin said, so gently and seriously that Gwen was sure he had guessed the direction her thoughts were taking. Then, with a furtive glance at Gwaine, he added more cheerfully, "He's probably just been caught up in some business, maybe getting settled in the town. I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Gwaine, who had begun to fidget once neither of them was paying attention to him, made a sudden move for the door, although Merlin's hand still rested carelessly on his shoulder and he had to pull away sharply from its grasp in the process.

Merlin picked up the remaining pile of clothes with a groan. "I'll just put these back again," he said. "Don't worry about me, if I break my back along the way, I'll shout for help; I can probably dig my way out if the shirts form an avalanche and bury me." He continued on this vein until his words were muffled within the wardrobe. Gwen wasn't overly concerned; he sounded too much like he was enjoying his monologue of self-pity.

"You know, it's a funny thing," Gwen observed, now that Gwaine was decently clothed at last and her brain was back into better working order, "I could have sworn that I heard Arthur offer to pay for a tailor for you to have some new clothes the day you arrived."

It was Gwaine's turn to look away. "Ah, yes, but it wouldn't have been — that is, I haven't had a chance yet to — Merlin offered to help."

Gwen nodded sagely, concealing her inner amusement. So that was what it took to put Gwaine off his perpetual readiness for flirtation. "Yes, Merlin likes to be helpful. He's a great friend that way."

"Right. Well, I'd better go get ready. It's not every day you become a knight, after all. Never thought I'd see the day I'd put this on." He fingered the front of the tunic on which Merlin had, with suspiciously fine and speedy work, embroidered Gwaine's house crest. "You know, after my father's death, I swore that no one would ever bear these colours again? I destroyed everything I could find that bore our crest and damned the lot of them. I never expected to find myself wearing it in the end."

"None of us expected to be where we are now," Gwen said, "not even Arthur, in some ways. Even the things you expect to happen don't always come about in the ways you thought."

Gwaine nodded. He cast a look toward the muffled sounds coming from the other room and said, "No, nothing's happened the way I thought it would." Then looking back at Gwen and catching her sympathetic expression, he flashed her a brilliant grin and said, "Lots of preparations to make before the final execution. Tell Merlin I've promised not to be parted from the tunic until after the ceremony and a decent night's revelry — or an indecent night's, if I can manage it." He finished with a lewd wink and hurried out before Gwen could come up with a rejoinder.

"You'd better still have your kit on—" Merlin was saying as he returned, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his features on finding Gwen alone, which she managed not to take personally.

"I think he had to go do some things to get ready," Gwen said without much conviction.

"You mean he's bolted again?" Merlin asked matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, pretty much," Gwen agreed. "He does seem quite nervous about the ceremony."

Merlin sighed. "I had to intercept him on his way to the stables twice this morning. He said he was just going out to get some air. He could have left plenty of times by now though — if he's not sure about being a knight, why is he staying and going through with it at all?"

"Maybe he has other reasons for staying," Gwen suggested. "Or maybe he doesn't want to let people down."

"I don't know why he's so worried, he's going to be brilliant." Merlin shook his head in incomprehension. "So is Lancelot, it'll be a great thing for both of them."

"Are you sure Lancelot's all right?" Gwen asked, returning to their former subject. "You don't know — I mean, you don't _know_ where he is, do you?"

Merlin sighed again. "I don't, no. And you're right, he should have been here by now. But Lancelot's a big boy, Gwen. He knows how to take care of himself. I'm sure everything will be fine, and he'll get here as soon as he can."

"I know that," said Gwen, "I do, it just — doesn't stop me worrying."

"I'll tell you what, if he's not here by the time the tournament begins, I'll go out and look for him myself," Merlin promised. "I found him before, and that was when he was guarding some peasants in a remote sea-side town. We know he rode close to Camelot with Gwaine, so he can't be far off. I'd go now, but I don't trust our visitors not to get up to mischief if they're left on their own. Do you?"

"No," she admitted, "I wish I did, but they _have_ been acting strangely. The Earl seems harmless enough. Arthur says he's arrogant, and proud, and doesn't like the idea of Northumbria paying tribute to what he looks down on as a newer kingdom. But there's something... _off_ about Sir Rothby, and I could have sworn that Lady Lavinia was trying to pump me for information about Camelot's defensive forces in between remarks about fabric tension."

"She does look like she could do dangerous things with a knitting needle," Merlin declared sombrely, which sent both of them into a brief fit of giggles.

"Lancelot can take care of himself," Merlin repeated firmly, once their laughter had subsided.

"Lancelot can take care of himself," Gwen agreed and tried to believe it.

* * *

In the morning, Lancelot awoke to the sight of Timothy clattering in with a breakfast tray which, as per his usual custom, just barely and improbably missed capsizing over Lancelot's head. Lancelot expected him to turn and retreat as usual, but he stayed frozen by the door watching Lancelot pick up his porridge and begin to eat as if he had forgotten how the sequence of "open door, walk through, close" was supposed to work.

"K-king Pelles, he" the boy said, stumbling over the words. "He _requests_ your presence in his private chambers." And then, having got that much out, he fled.

Lancelot ate the rest of his breakfast on a leaden stomach, wondering how far Pelles' charitable views extended on the question of his daughter sneaking into a strange man's room at night. The summons could have nothing to do with last night's uninvited visitation, he told himself firmly, not believing it in the slightest, and descended as calmly as he could from the tower.

Pelles' private chambers were located in another wing of the castle altogether, as Lancelot discovered by dint of a great deal of aimless wandering that took him, at length, into a part of the castle he had never seen before. The rooms there were a little larger; fewer doors opened onto the corridor, and the footsteps of the attendants who passed along it were more discreet, more careful not to obtrude on the notice of the inhabitants. Lancelot found a door before which two guards stood at attention, and asked one of these if King Pelles was within.

The guard's eyes flicked over him, assessing but uninterested in the result, and returned to their watchfulness without any further movement.

A moment later, the door swung open from within and Lancelot was ushered in by a well-dressed servant who shut the door behind him then retreated to a respectful distance. Pelles was standing at a long, low table on which were laid out dozens of crumbling old scrolls, some so caked with dust and decay that Lancelot wasn't sure anything could remain beneath the crust of age.

Pelles beckoned him forward and carefully unrolled a piece of parchment that crackled ominously in protest.

"This was in the time of Alfred the Great," said Pelles, indicating long columns of scratchy letters that Lancelot could not read. Along their edges curled a trail of vines and, suspended from it, a man dangling by his ankle who appeared to have been mauled by some sort of wild animal. There was a gaping wound in his side and a foot soldier with a spear knelt down at the bottom of the page — part of the same hunt, Lancelot thought, until he noticed that the spear was dripping as well as the wound. He turned away feeling sick.

"Our family has a long and colourful history, as you can see," Pelles carried on, his fingers hovering over the colourful images in the margins as he traced their story in the text. "My ancestor Pellam was a great and virtuous king until he was driven mad by lust for a young married woman in his court. When she rebuffed his advances, King Pellam lured her husband out into the woods, away from his hunting party, and killed him, telling the others when they arrived that he had been killed by a wild boar. When the poor man's wife heard of this, she shut herself away in her rooms and swore that she would never allow a man entry again. After a few days, the king ordered the guards to break down her door, and found only one of her serving women, weeping into her apron. She said her lady had gone mad in her grief and despair, and sworn that she would take no other mate but the creature that had killed her husband. And so with the help of a witch she changed herself into a wild beast and went to roam the woods.

"When the king heard this, he summoned the court sorcerer and commanded him to transform him into a wild boar. The sorcerer warned him that the longer he spent in the form of an animal, the more he would come to think like the animal, and gave him a charm that would return him to human form when he touched it, urging him not to wait too long to use it. The king hid the charm in the roots of a tree at the edge of the wood, and the sorcerer spoke the magic words to transform him. After that, Pellam wandered into the woods, in search of his mate.

"Nothing more was heard from the king for days, and no one knows if he ever found the lady he sought, but some days later when his lords were hunting in the woods, they came across a magnificent boar, a king of beasts. It was digging around the roots of various trees as if searching for something buried there, and when it saw the hunting party it seemed to go mad. It went into a frenzy, pawing at the ground and emitting a series of wild squeals and shrieks. The hunting party were nervous, thinking that perhaps the beast was rabid, and when at last it made a move to charge back towards them and the castle, one of the king's own retainers hurled a javelin to bring it down.

"As soon as it had stilled, the flesh on its bones seemed to shimmer and change, and before long it was the body of the king lying before them, naked and torn by the javelin in the same place as the lord that he had killed. The party carried him back to the castle, where the whole story came out, and a search was made for the lady, the sorcerer, and the charm buried in the wood, but none of them was ever found.

"No one knew how much of the king's mind the beast had retained, but it was generally agreed among the people of the court that the murderous instincts of the animal had led the king to attack his own men, and so no more was done in the matter except to give the king's body a quiet funeral and confer among themselves as to who should be the next king."

There was a long pause, as Pelles seemed to sink into contemplation of the manuscript.

"And do you believe the story, my lord?" Lancelot asked, wondering at its meaning.

"Hmm? Oh, well, yes," said Pelles distractedly, "there is another version of the story in which the lady simply fled after her husband's death, out of fear of the king, and his own men turned against him to avenge their friend's death. Who knows whether we bring these evils on ourselves or if they are dispensed from other hands?"

Lancelot, who felt he ought to say something more in response, asked, "And this man, King Pellam, he was your—"

"Oh, my great grandfather, or my great-great-grandfather. The records are uncertain after his death, as his children were quietly removed to this castle and dwelt in some obscurity until my grandfather achieved lordship once more over these lands. His eldest son was Pescheour, the Fisher King. You must know his story?"

Lancelot said slowly, "He was a king who allowed his knights to roam at large around the countryside, attacking freely wherever they willed. His own brother struck down a knight of Camelot, and the knight's brother returned to seek vengeance. He dealt the Fisher King a blow from which the king could never recover and never die, but must live in agony."

Pelles nodded gravely. "Since that time, my uncles' lands have lain in waste and ruin. Only my father's kingdom survived, and it has fallen to our hands to preserve the last relics of our family." He opened a thickly bound tome — one written in the common Latin — to a page where the text bounded an image of a wooden cup, set with jewels. "It is said that whoever drinks from the grail gains ever-lasting life. A vessel of the very deepest magic. And yet its legacy has also been a curse upon my family, for those like Pescheour can never die, no matter how great their pain, until they are released from the hold of its magic.

"My sons are forbidden to touch it. When I die it will pass into the keeping of my daughter, and from there perhaps, at last, it will fade into the dust of history. If it does not — if any man can deserve its blessings, I think it will be a son of hers."

Pelles closed the book he had been studying, and sat heavily in a chair. As he did, Lancelot noticed that he was favouring his own left side, pressing his hand against his chest as he sank back, as if an old wound there pained him as well. He noticed the direction of Lancelot's gaze and smiled.

"A hunting accident in my youth," he said. "It has healed long ago, but the scar remains, and sometimes it pulls to remind me." He laughed at Lancelot's expression. "Don't look so worried! I was not transformed into a wild boar at the time. If you live long enough, I dare say you will be less surprised to see a fellow knight with a battle wound. But you did not come here to hear listen to an old man wallow in his reminiscences or his family history."

"No, my lord," said Lancelot, some of his earlier nervousness returning.

"Chrétien, bring me my sword," the king ordered.

Lancelot took an involuntary step back. Surely no one would would spend that much time discussing his family history as a prelude to an execution? Yet he couldn't help flinching as the servant brought out a long bundle and laid it out before the king, pulling back the swaddling cloths to show the gleam of highly polished and efficient metal.

"Well?" Pelles demanded.

Lancelot gulped. "My lord, if I have offended you in some way during my short stay here, I can only say —" he began, but Pelles waved it off.

"Aren't you going to try it?" he asked. "Sidney told me you didn't have a proper weapon of your own. He felt quite badly about it, he said, because he wants you to be able to defend yourself properly and he thought the old sword you were using yesterday couldn't have helped."

"I cannot accept — your own sword —" Lancelot said in some confusion.

"I have others," Pelles said, "and as it is the gift of a king, it should not be declined."

"Then thank you, my lord," Lancelot said and took up the sword reverently from its wrappings. He tested its weight in his hands, finding it surprisingly light, but when he gripped it by the hilt he found it balanced perfectly and naturally. Holding it straight out before him and looking along the blade, twisting it slowly to ensure that every line and angle was straight, he caught the king's servant watching him with widened eyes as he tidied away the cloth and books from the table.

Lancelot let the point of the sword drop and bowed deeply to the king. "It is a fine instrument, my lord. Thank you for your generosity."

"Such swords tend to find their way into the right hands," Pelles said, "don't you think? It will be a better match for that armour of yours than some old practice sword."

The servant followed him to the door to let him out, and Lancelot could have sworn when he looked back that he was being watched with interest by the guards who were still waiting outside.

He found William waiting for him at the end of the corridor, leaning casually against the wall yet in a way that effectively blocked Lancelot's exit. Seen from up close, he was not quite what Lancelot had expected. Lancelot had imagined features more like his sister's, based on some of their similar tricks of moving. It was Sidney, however, to whom William bore the most marked resemblance, despite their great differences in shape and bulk.

William smiled pleasantly, no hint of anything menacing, but his eyes were sharp as he looked Lancelot over.

"I see you got on with my father, then," was the first thing he said, skipping over the niceties of introducing himself. He was looking at the sword in Lancelot's hand.

Lancelot shifted uncertainly. He wanted to flee back to his own room and take the measure of this new weapon in private, but he could hardly push his way past one of the king's sons. "He said your brother—"

"Ah, yes, Sidney. Did you mean to mean to con him, by the way?" he asked, and the bland tone in which he asked it belied its insinuation so well that it took a moment for the full implication to register.

"I don't know what you mean," Lancelot said a little stiffly.

"That trick yesterday," William said, "letting him win so easily. He said he knocked you over in one round? He's certainly feeling over-confident now, if that's what you were hoping for. The funny thing is you don't move like someone that inept. So, were you trying to lull him in a state of false confidence, or did you just happen to... trip, during that round?"

"Something like that," Lancelot said, who didn't want to explain the full context of the events to William any more than he had to his brother.

"Well then, let's see what it takes to trip you," said William. Without waiting for an answer, he slung an amicable arm around Lancelot's shoulders and stayed glued to his side until they reached the small practice yard. They made no detour to the armoury and, from a sword that William produced seemingly out of nowhere, it was clear that none was intended. It was easier, true, if more hazardous, to observe an unknown opponent's movements without his armour on.

If Lancelot had thought that practising against Elaine or Sidney was exhausting, it was nothing to facing William. It wasn't just that he was a quick and wily opponent; it was the constant stream of remarks with which William accompanied every move, offering up comments on Lancelot's strategy and technique, his own, and sometimes on completely irrelevant matters such as the likelihood of rain in the surrounding farmlands that season. It was obvious that he meant to test Lancelot's concentration, but the semi-continuous stream of patter didn't seem to affect his own speed or skill at all, and he was just as likely to make a sudden and unexpected move without pausing for breath in mid-sentence as at a moment when he remained silent and watchful.

Lancelot for his own part did what he could to ignore the commentary, watching instead the ways in which William moved, the small but eloquent hints of movement in the way he placed his feet, in the turn of his hips and where his shoulder sat. When he failed to rise to any of William's opening jabs, they became less frequent and aimed experimentally at different points of attack. They were clearly aimed at random, and several speculating about Lancelot's birth and his family bounced off harmlessly. It was only when William said, "So you thought you could lure my sister away with you?" and then, "Was she the first lady you've run off with into the woods?" that Lancelot faltered.

William spotted this slight hesitation and pressed home with, "How many ladies are there out there right now wondering where you are or if you will ever return?"

Hearing it shouldn't have mattered. Lancelot saw William's next move before he made it, knew that he would step in to the right and bash Lancelot's sword arm out of the way. He saw the move coming and knew how to counter it, but in one part of his mind Gwen's face had risen up, gentle and unrebukingly sad, and Lancelot's feet were a half-pace too slow. William caught him smartly beneath his grip, kicked his feet out from under him, and let his sword swing down lightly to hover with casual menace over the point of Lancelot's throat.

"That was fun," he said with a little smile that Lancelot could see upside-down above him. "We must do it again some time."

With that William sauntered off, leaving Lancelot to pick himself up. When he did, he found Elaine watching him from the covered walkway.

"That was sad," she said, making no move to help him either as he rose and dusted himself off.

"Thank you for your concern, my lady," said Lancelot, trying not to sound as bruised as he felt.

"The first thing to remember with William," she carried on regardless, "is not to listen to anything he says, because it's the most appalling rubbish. And second, it helps if you know that when he was a little boy he used to collect frogs in a basin that he kept locked up in his closet, and that one day when our nursemaid caught him smuggling them into his room he stuffed them down his trousers to hide. If you can still take him seriously after that, you might as well surrender in advance. I see Papa's given you Dolor," she added as a non sequitur.

Lancelot frowned in confusion. "He seemed more welcoming than before."

Elaine stared at him and then went to pick up the sword that William had knocked from his hand. "Dolor," she said, handing it back to him with visible reluctance, "is the name of the sword."

"What is it about this sword?" Lancelot demanded, exasperated at having fallen needlessly for the second time on the same increasingly tender spot of his back, and somewhat nonplussed at finding that his new sword merited tenderer care than his ribs.

"It's been in our family for about, hmm—" Elaine stopped to think "—yes, seven generations. Like the dinner set, only Papa couldn't give _me_ a sword, just the useless bits of wood. And he always put off handing it to my brothers, as well." Her eyes followed yearningly the sweep of its blade in his hand. "So you see he either must like you a great deal or else he's trying to infuriate them into killing you when they get the chance. But probably it's that he likes you. What did he say to you, anyway?"

"There was something about a story in a book, about your family history," Lancelot said. He'd forgotten most of it already, although an impression remained of a great sadness in Pelles when he talked of his family. "And about your inheritance and having children, I thi—" He stopped in sudden horror. "Er, I don't think he meant — I mean, it wasn't about you and—"

Elaine wrinkled her nose into an expression of distaste. "Wonderful, so he thinks you'd make a good father for his grandchildren. Good of you both to consult me. Well at least that must mean he isn't expecting you to die imminently, how nice for you." She swept off into the castle.

Lancelot did his best to convince himself that he was feeling unusually weighed down that day only because of his injuries, but the mood lingered beyond the physical discomfort. The image of Gwen's face hovered on the edge of his mind for the rest of the day, sometimes alternating with the brief flash of real unhappiness he had seen when Elaine turned away from him.


	5. Chapter 5

It was generally agreed that Sir Gwaine's knighthood ceremony would have been forgettable in itself, but for the party that followed. Someone had procured, in addition to the usual provisions, an extra wagon load of mead from the Rising Sun tavern, a particular local brew that had quite an unexpected kick to it around the second flagon for those who weren't used to it. Sir Gwaine carried himself well throughout the evening, but some of the younger knights and squires quite lost their heads, and poor Sir Bors was found the next morning the wrong end up in one of the horses' feeding troughs and wearing an inexplicable headdress constructed from a lady's undergarment.

Sir Gwaine made himself instantly popular among his new fellows by a combination of salacious anecdotes and a much-lauded ability to judge when the person he was talking to had finished his ale and not to impede his quest for a refill. Every so often he gravitated back to the centre of the hall where the King, Queen, and one of the royal councillors sat in a circle of more restrained, private mirth. He sometimes wrapped a friendly arm around Merlin and tried to draw him out into the general conversation, but inevitably lost him back to the little inner circle before they could get very far. The name "Lancelot" drifted out of the private conference every so often, which Sir Gwaine tried to ignore by returning to the more boisterous conversations going on around the edges of the hall. Inevitably, though, he would be drawn back to hover at Merlin's elbow, or to flirt with Gwen, or to insult the king. It all made for a full evening's entertainment.

He woke up in a new room that he eventually recognized as his own to find the king himself standing at the foot of his bed, his arms crossed and looking maliciously cheerful.

"So I have 'a face like a warthog's backside after it's eaten a few too many elderberries'?" King Arthur said.

Gwaine, blinking into the painfully bright morning sunshine, tried to remember if that was actually one of the things he had said to the king the night before. It seemed plausible enough.

"Was there something I could help you with, sire?" Gwaine asked, as politely as he could without moving his mouth very much. It tasted like he had been chewing on old, musty bed furnishings. Moving his tongue brought it into contact with new and unpleasant sensations.

"It's more about what I can do for _you_ ," Arthur said. "You are a new knight of Camelot, you have much to learn about the brotherhood of knights, and I can think of no better way to _truly welcome you_ into our midst than to personally oversee your first day of combat practice with the others. I try to take a personal interest in ensuring that every knight who serves me knows how to defend himself and others. I thought you might want to start off against me."

"Are you sure — ow," said Gwaine, "that you want to do this now?"

"No time like the present, Sir Gwaine. I look forward to seeing you on the practice grounds in ten minutes. Don't forget your armour," Arthur said and left Gwaine to his necessarily brief private misery.

Gwaine, dressed in his old clothes and not sure he could remember how to find his armour or the practice yard, left his rooms without much of a feeling of optimism and ran smack-dab into Merlin, who had been hovering just outside the door.

"I thought you might be wanting these," he said. He was staggering under a freshly polished pile of armour. "Can I come in?"

"You didn't have to do this, you're not my servant, Merlin," Gwaine pointed out, although his heart lightened immeasurably at Merlin's presence.

"I know that. But I also know what it's like to deal with Arthur in the morning when you've just spent all night coming up with new and colourful epithets for the way he twists his eyebrows around when he's surprised," Merlin said, speaking with the voice of hard-won experience. "So I thought you could use the help — from a friend," he added.

"As a friend, Merlin, you are the most grateful sight I have ever seen," said Gwaine and ushered him into his quarters.

He emerged into the practice grounds only about five minutes late and in a better condition than some of the other new knights, particularly Sir Bors, who seemed to have lost his shirt and attempted to replace it with a hastily altered nightdress. The collar was fairly unobtrusive, despite the lace, but the end kept falling down out of the tunic beneath which he had attempted to bunch it up inconspicuously. He was making desperate attempts to hack off some of the extra material with his sword when Gwaine arrived.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Arthur in a loud, hearty voice, designed to have the maximum effect on those whose heads were already pounding. "I hope I haven't inconvenienced any of you by calling you together for training this morning. Is anyone feeling inconvenienced?"

There was a pregnant pause. Sir Bors whimpered.

"Very good," Arthur said, "and Sir Bors, thank you for volunteering to be part of our first exercise. Anyone else? Ah, Sir Gwaine, you had a number of interesting opinions to share last night that I would like to see put into practice. Do join us."

Gwaine had the sinking feeling, when Arthur slung a companionable arm around Sir Bors' shoulders and started discussing the most efficacious method of removing Gwaine's head or severing one of his limbs, that he might have said one or two more indiscreet things to the king than he had intended.

Merlin, who had snuck down at a decent interval after Gwaine to observe the practice, settled in to watch the training bouts with some satisfaction. Arthur's training techniques had changed over the last six months. Whereas before he had often invited more than one opponent to attack him at the same time, honing his own combat skills against uneven odds, now he was more likely than not to order another knight to defend himself alone and pick out another with whom to coordinate his attack.

Merlin wondered if the knights saw the change as a further petty injustice, like being dragged out of their beds at the crack of dawn for training. Merlin probably would have thought so if he were the one being walloped with a pratice sword. As it was, from his comfortable vantage point on the other side of the fence, Merlin thought it was something else entirely.

Arthur had always relished his place at the centre of the field and the height of the action. He had prided himself on being the very best knight that Camelot had to offer. Now he was, at last, forcing himself to take a step back and place a greater importance on the need of the other knights to learn and improve.

It was a sign of how far Arthur had come since Merlin had first met him that he had stopped trying so hard to prove himself. He _knew_ he was the best knight at Camelot; so did everyone in the kingdom and most of the neighbouring ones too, no doubt. Merlin had never seen anyone beat Arthur in single combat but Lancelot or Morgause. But Arthur didn't need to be the best fighter any more; what he needed now was to be the best leader. And that was the person who Merlin saw emerging from these training sessions.

Arthur was currently having Gwaine practise his skills at defending himself against unequal odds and at the same time teaching Sir Bors how to fight at close quarters with an ally at his side. Of course, the whole practice still _looked_ like puerile revenge, since everyone knew that Sir Gwaine had been... having a bit of a laugh at the king's expense the night before. And there had been the bill for the extra wine casks that had materialized among the castle accounts that morning. And Sir Bors had also caused an unfortunate scene in the public courtyard this morning. Merlin guessed that Arthur would probably call singling them out this morning an exercise in discipline or possibly "a much-needed lesson in the behaviour best befitting a knight of Camelot".

Merlin was just glad he wasn't the one receiving the lesson, this time. He had always hated being dragged out for combat practice. He would never have admitted, except perhaps to Gwen, that the reason he still came to watch these bouts was pride in Arthur and how far he had come towards being the king that Merlin had always know he could be.

Sir Gwaine, for his part, seemed to be holding his own well enough against the other two combatants, although his methods were far from orthodox. Sir Bors on the other hand was taking on a distinctly green tinge and looking about himself desperately, whenever Arthur halted the exercise to provide general instructions, for an unobtrusive place in which to be sick. He was saved from the lamentable decision of whether to abandon his sovereign on the field or be sick on his boots (Merlin could have told him that the boots were the worse option) by the appearance of Sir Rothby, whose presence sent an immediate chill through the crowd.

A wide gap opened up around the visiting knight as he settled in to watch the training.

Arthur gave him a curt nod, said, "Glad you could make it," and, without further acknowledgment, "Sir Bors, if you've finished with last night's mead, you can come support my flank."

Sir Bors, who had taken advantage of the temporary distraction to find a bucket, returned to his position looking none the better for wear. The next round was uninspiring. Sir Bors was clearly too distracted by his stomach to hold up his side of the defense, but Sir Gwaine held off on pressing the advantage, focussing his attack on Arthur instead. Arthur, holding him off easily and unable to inspire Bors to any great activity, let out a cry of disgust and stepped back from the fight entirely.

"This is pathetic! You aren't even trying," Arthur told them. "You are knights of Camelot, you are the foremost line of defense for the security of the realm. You must be able to defend yourselves and those around you _no matter the circumstances_. If that means facing a friend — learning his strengths and weaknesses so that you know how to complement them when you stand by side — or being able to step in unprepared, you must learn to do so! Enough," he said at last, when Gwaine had half-heartedly knocked Sir Bors off his feet.

Sir Gwaine helped Sir Bors apologetically back up while Arthur asked anyone who had "come prepared not to embarrass himself" to step forward.

Sir Leon and several of the more experienced knights looked ready to volunteer, but Sir Rothby's discreet cough cut through their polite reticence.

"Sir Rothby, I take it you would like to try your skills against some more of Camelot's finest?" Arthur asked. "Thank you. Do we have another volunteer?"

The knights, even those who had been prepared to step forward a moment ago, now shuffled indecisively in place. Sir Rothby had not made himself popular among them.

"I would be happy to try my luck against Camelot's most renowned knight of all — that is, if you don't consider it beneath you," Sir Rothby said snidely.

"Not at all," Arthur said, "but the purpose of these sessions is to allow the knights to train. It would do them good to practise against a little known opponent."

"Surely they would not object to a demonstration?" Sir Rothby suggested. "They can observe while they... recover their stomach for fighting."

Arthur seemed displeased but held it back as well as he could. "Very well. Prepare yourself, Sir Rothby."

Sir Rothby selected a sword from the weapons rack, making a show of testing its balance while glaring significantly at Gwaine. The blade cut easily through the air and Merlin looked on in horror, sure without knowing why that something was about to go terribly wrong.

There was something different about Sir Rothby's gait this morning. It was a little more confident, a little more decisive. When Sir Rothby ran his finger along the dulled edge of the practice sword, a shiver of apprehension ran down Merlin's spine. It felt like a stronger version of the wariness he had felt around Sir Rothby since they first met, but now it was more definite and he recognized it for what it was. He would have bet his life that Sir Rothby had just done something to enchant the sword in his hand — the sword he was about to turn against Arthur — and that it would not now be stopped by mere armour.

Merlin was tensed and ready to interfere in whatever way he could — to trip up Sir Rothby, or perhaps to invent an errand on which he could urgently draw Arthur away — but he was spared the trouble by the appearance of a genuine message from within the castle. A servant stepped forward to whisper in Arthur's ear and Merlin heard Arthur repeat, "Lancelot?" before he excused himself, leaving Sir Leon in charge of handling Sir Rothby and the knights' training.

Merlin ran after him as Arthur strode briskly into the castle.

"There's word of Lancelot?" Merlin asked a little breathlessly as he caught him up.

"I don't know yet," said Arthur shortly.

"What the hell was that you were doing back there, anyway?" Merlin demanded once they were out of earshot of the others.

"Rupert told me his nephew was keen to practice his skills with the other knights, but that they had been... inhospitable. I'd already told the Earl I intended to oversee today's training personally, so I extended an invitation to his nephew. What else could I do?"

"But did you have to be the one to fight him?" Merlin asked.

"The whole point was to set an example," Arthur said in exasperation. "By facing him myself I show that I consider him the equal of any of my own knights. Besides, the others weren't exactly leaping forward at the chance."

"Probably because they haven't got turnips for brains," Merlin muttered and, when Arthur huffed indignantly, said more loudly, "He was up to something. He would have tried to kill you if you had fought him."

"Lots of people have tried to kill me," said Arthur, "that's no reason to break off diplomatic relations."

"I'm not joking, Arthur," Merlin insisted. "Did you see what he did with that sword when he picked it up? I'm telling you, if you tested that edge you'd find it was no dulled practice blade."

Arthur paused in his progress, but only briefly. "I can take care of myself," he said finally.

"I know, I know you can," Merlin said, "but sometimes you shouldn't. Please, Arthur, I'm begging you, you have to be more careful around him. There's something _wrong_ going on there. I can feel it."

Arthur looked at him a bit strangely, but didn't say anything more because they had almost reached the Great Hall.

"Is he in there?" Arthur asked one of the guards outside the doors.

"Yes, sire," the guard replied.

* * *

Gregory sulked. He would not have called it sulking if asked; he would have said he was sunk in a deep and introspective meditation on the finer points of law, chivalry, and the art of combat. He was, however, most definitely sulking.

Circumstances were conspiring to make Gregory look foolish. By now the entire castle knew that Gregory had been bested by some... nobody of a man in the woods. Worse, it seemed both of Gregory's brothers had bested the man easily in practice. Apparently this Lancelot fellow had even saved Sid a lot of trouble by tripping over his own feet on a couple of occasions.

Then William had stopped by his rooms bright and early in the morning to ask if he was coming down to practice, and slipped ever so subtly into conversation the fact that he'd had a round with their stranger knight yesterday and that the fellow was a complete pushover. Even accounting for William's natural tendency to rub it in when he won a match, this was humiliating.

No one was ever going to let Gregory forget that he had been beaten by a man who Sidney could knock over with his little finger.

He couldn't even work out how the bastard had done it, either. His brothers said Lancelot had been travelling with another man when they caught up with him that night, but Gregory had seen no sign of a second man in the clearing when Lancelot attacked him.

"He must just have caught you off guard," Sidney had said about it with a shrug.

It was all very well for Sidney to say that; he hadn't been the one standing there staring down the sword of a man who came out of nowhere, nursing a bruised foot from his own sister's boot.

There was no shame in being caught off guard in an ordinary way. It was the bit where he'd been caught off guard by a man he could see clearly up to the moment he lost consciousness. It all led to niggling doubts about what Elaine had been up to out in the woods and whether she had been the one to knock him out. Since he doubted that he'd get much more sympathy for blaming his little sister for the attack, he preferred to keep his mouth firmly shut on that point.

"Chrétien," he called out, seeing his father's servant pass by his open door. "Come here for a moment."

Chrétien, carrying a tall pile of books that reached up over his head, took a minute to locate the source of the voice. The books tottered precariously as he turned so he could see Gregory waving him forward.

"Yes sir, is there something I can do for you?" he asked in a tone that said very clearly that Gregory was distracting his attention from at least ten much more important things.

"Oh, it's just a silly rumour," Gregory said, trying to sound off-handed. "I thought you could clear it up for me. William was in here earlier, talking some sort of rubbish about this Lancelot fellow having one of my father's swords to use in the tournament."

Gregory did his best to say it without grimacing, but only managed a somewhat toothy grin that made Chrétien take a step back. The books teetered dangerously.

"I don't suppose there was any basis to that, was there?" Gregory asked. He would have liked to slap Chrétien on the back to show that he knew they were just sharing a good-humoured joke about the very idea that his father would do a thing like that, only he didn't want to deal with the parchment avalanche that would follow.

Chrétien, as if he had divined Gregory's thoughts, stepped carefully out of his arm's reach. "Yes, sir, he gave him Dolor," he said.

"I expect he was just loaning it to him, though, right?" Gregory asked hopefully. "For the tournament, I mean."

Chrétien coughed and shifted the stack of books in his arms. "No, sir, I'm sorry, sir, I think he meant it as a gift."

Gregory glared at him hard. "And what makes you so sure it was a gift?" he demanded.

"Because your father said it was a gift, sir," said Chrétien.

He said it perfectly blandly and politely but for some reason Gregory was sure he would have preferred to say, "because I'm not a nincompoop, you ninny."

"May I go now?" the servant asked, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Gregory waved him away, already sunk back deep into thought. Or, as it might be, sulking.

Dolor was his grandfather's sword. It was the sword with which he had won back the kingdom from the hands of some over-zealous barons who had taken it upon themselves to declare that the royal family were cursed — or a bunch of lecherous thugs, accounts varied — and installed some sort of council of nobles to rule instead for a couple of generations. It had been a prosperous time for the kingdom and their tradespeople had been rising in affluence, but fortunately Gregory's grandfather had stepped in to put a stop to it. He had taken up the sword of old King Pellam, the last king in their line, and killed off any of the barons who had shown signs of free-thinking, until the land was firmly back under his control and the peasants suitably destitute.

Then, in his father's generation, everything had gone wrong again. There had been stories about Gregory's uncle, the one they never saw, getting himself enchanted by a cut-rate sorcerer so that he could sneak into a lady's chambers undetected. Unfortunately, the spell hadn't worn off when it was supposed to, and she had screamed blue murder when she found herself being caressed by an invisible hand. There were other stories in which the lady was the sorcerer's wife and that was why his uncle was never seen again. Still others said he roamed across the Wasteland, rendered permanently invisible, striking down knights from beyond its borders who dared to venture within and pinching the bottoms of passing young women. Whatever the truth of the matter was, his kingdom was no longer a popular travel destination.

Since Pelles' older brother was cursed with an immortality filled with perpetual suffering, Pellam's sword, and the remaining parts of the kingdom that hadn't been cursed along with him, had passed to Pelles, the only remaining son who wasn't too cursed or invisible to rule. Pelles had always made it clear that he intended to avoid his father's worst mistakes by only passing the kingship on to one of his children who he could be convinced was competent and not likely to tear the rest of the kingdom apart.

Gregory had always been the best knight in his father's kingdom. He had enjoyed being the best. He had known with a kind of pleasant but abstract certainty that one day Pelles would come to him and say, "My son, you have proven yourself to be a worthy heir to this kingdom. Take now your grandfather's sword and swear to protect these lands and their people." It was the sort of thing he thought about when he was having a nice hot bath after a long day of hitting things with his own sword. It was absolutely unthinkable that his father should just have handed that coveted family heirloom and all it represented over to a complete stranger.

It was true their father had a soft spot for Elaine, but when all that came down to was giving her a couple of scraps of wood with a morbid prehistory, Gregory wasn't bothered by it. It was something else entirely to hand over King Pellam's sword to a nobody just on the off-chance that he _might_ prove himself worthy to marry Elaine.

Besides, he didn't see how his father could seriously expect the man to triumph in the contest, not after how badly he'd fought against Sidney, so why just hand over Pellam's sword to someone destined to fail?

Gregory sat up suddenly at attention. There was only one reason he could think of why his father would hand such a valuable symbol over to a man who was sure to be beaten by one or the other of his sons:

It was a test.

It had to be, it was the only logical explanation. Pelles had decreed that each of his sons was to fight in turn against this Lancelot fellow. Lancelot had the sword. Therefore whichever of them defeated Lancelot and took the sword from him, earning it in combat, would be the next man to rule the kingdom. It was all so simple.

There was only one thing for it. He, Gregory, was going to have to be the one to defeat Lancelot in the tournament and, what was more, he was going to make sure neither of his brothers did. That was the only way to impress upon his father how much better he, Gregory, was than his brothers, and how much more suitable he would be to reign after his father's death.

If Lancelot was confused when Gregory turned up at his door with a hearty grin, he did his best not to show it.

Gregory greeted him warmly and said, "So what's all this I hear about you having some trouble standing up to my brothers on the field? Better let me help you with that."

For the third day in a row, Lancelot found himself dragged out to the practice yard, thinking ruefully that it would have been nice to have a full night's sleep before this. If Elaine tried to drag him out again tonight, he would just have to make her see reason, that was all. When he was younger he had trained every day, without fail. Even then, though, he had never trained morning, noon and night. If he didn't make it through the tournament itself, it might be due to the exhaustion of practising for it.

* * *

"I don't know what you're all looking at me for," Gwaine said defensively. "It's not as if I even knew him. He was just someone I ran into on the road."

They were all looking at him — all being Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin, who had just happened to be there in the king's private chambers when Gwaine had been summoned to them — as if expecting him to confess to murdering Lancelot in the woods.

"And you say you didn't actually see him leave?" Arthur was asking again, with what hope of a better answer Gwaine did not know.

"I'm telling you, he just vanished in the night." Gwaine threw up his hands as the other three exchanged a glance that seemed to indicate some private understanding that he did not share. "He could have been a vision or a hallucination, some figment of the brain, for all the sign of him there was left in the morning. It was his watch," Gwaine repeated forcefully, "I heard him pacing about for a while and then it was just quiet and the next thing I knew I was waking up and he'd gone. I thought he was a bit of a bastard, to be honest, for sneaking off like that and leaving me undefended after we'd promised each other we'd take turns standing guard."

Another significant glance between the three.

"He's been taken against his will then," Arthur gravely concluded. "He would never have gone off like that and left someone he was travelling with in peril."

Gwen was biting her lip and seemed less sure. "What if he — if he decided, if he changed his mind — it's not the first time he's left without a word."

Merlin touched her arm and said quietly, "You know that wasn't why — if Arthur and I hadn't been there... you know he would never have left you alone, Gwen. Not while he lived."

Gwen nodded slightly, staring down hard at the floor, while Arthur coughed and appeared to be trying to look anyone else, even at Gwaine.

Gwaine looked between the three of them, suspicions turning themselves over in his head. "Just how good of an old friend did you say he was, again?"

Arthur's attention snapped back from an inoffensive spot in the middle distance to focus sharply on Gwaine. "Thank you for your information, Sir Gwaine. Please don't hesitate to tell us if you come to know of any other of your fellow knights going missing."

Gwaine left the three of them behind, clustered in a tight protective knot with Gwen as its centre, feeling very much alone and hard done by.

When he rejoined the other knights — many of whom had drifted away from their training to find out what had been going on — it seemed that the name "Lancelot" was echoing back and forth from one side of the field to another. Some of the older knights still remembered Lancelot from when he had first come to Camelot, although his time among them had been extremely brief.

The man must have been gifted with the art of making an impression. Sir Leon had been new to the company at the time, still starry-eyed at the prospect of fighting alongside the golden Prince Arthur. He, like so many others, had been awed when Lancelot had bested the Prince at his own challenge. Few enough of Arthur's knights could manage to knock the Prince down, even after long training against him. No one else had ever managed it at a first try.

Then had come Lancelot's mysterious disappearance, and the rumours that he had defeated a magical beast against which the Prince and all his knights had been unable to stand. That he had been banished in spite of his heroism only added to the mystique.

Here was a figure the younger knights were clearly prepared to regard with awe. Especially those who had made fools of themselves after the previous night's revelry. Some of them were already picturing themselves performing Lancelot-like feats of chivalry, perhaps beating King Arthur for once in an exercise, to the ready acclaim of all.

Gwaine's appearance when he returned among them was thus greeted with even more cross-questioning about Lancelot than the king and queen had required. When Gwaine got sick of answering the same questions over and over again — "Yes, he said something exactly like 'hold, you uncouth fiend, and unhand that lady at once or you will taste the wrath of Sir Lancelot, knight of Camelot,' but I was the one who hit the other fellow with a big stick" — he stormed off, exclaiming, "and I hope he gets back soon so you can all line up to wipe his arse for him. It's a mystery to me why Arthur even wants him back at all," he added to himself in an undertone. "If he had any brains at all, he'd keep his queen's old lover away from here."

Sometimes, when a man has been drinking in the tavern and sharing a series of good-humoured remarks with his new-found friends about the curiously troll-like figure of a man who has been hired to stand by the door and look menacing as a way of keeping the peace, he finds himself saying into an unexpected lull in the general conversation that, "Basher's mother must have looked like the hindquarters of a horse." It takes a moment for his mind to catch up with his tongue and order it into silence, by which time "Basher" is already making his way across the tavern floor with a view to a friendly conversation about the respectful behaviour due to one's elders.

The same thing happened now to Gwaine, as the words "the queen's old lover" made themselves heard to the greater part of the people gathered around the courtyard. If Gwaine could have bitten off his own tongue to stop them from carrying, he would have done it gladly.

The silence around him grew louder and longer, and the other knights edged away from him in a subtle show of their instinct for self-preservation.

"That jest comes very near to treason, Sir Gwaine," said Sir Leon, breaking the silence at last.

"It was a foolish — I meant nothing by it," said Gwaine, feeling abashed, but unable to recall the words.

With that the general atmosphere returned to something more tolerable. The murmur of conversation came back again, more quietly, as Sir Leon called the knights' attentions back to their duties. Sir Gwaine received no small number of raised eyebrows, some of which also made unfortunate attempts at waggling and knowing winks.

On the edge of the milling crowd, as Camelot's finest returned to their practising, Gwaine caught sight of the solitary figure of Sir Rothby, standing still amid the resumed activity and watching him closely.

It was still barely lunch time and Sir Gwaine would already have been glad to cancel out the entire day and go back to bed. It certainly couldn't have been worse.

* * *

Sir Rothby walked sedately back into the castle, waiting until he was out of sight of the crowd of knights and back in the quiet halls of the castle to break into a fast walk, almost a run. He arrived at the Lady Lavinia's quarters with his breathing rapid and excited. Lady Lavinia answered at the first knock and Sir Rothby didn't even wait until he was within to say, "I have a way."

Lady Lavinia ushered him in with a quick, cautious look down the corridor. When she had finished protecting the room from potential eavesdroppers, she asked, "You are sure?"

Sir Rothby smiled smugly. "It cannot fail. What is the one thing Arthur will always do?"

"Protect the kingdom?" Lady Lavinia shook her head in perplexity. "I do not know him as you do."

"No, _Gwen_ ," Sir Rothby said, eyes gleaming with excitement. "He would do anything for her. If she is threatened, there are no lengths to which he would not go. You saw how he behaved when she was kidnapped. When she was accused of sorcery he offered to give up the throne. She is the only way to ensure he sets aside his caution and throws himself into the ring."

"How will you do that?" Lavinia asked. "Now that she is queen, it is surely as difficult to attack her as Arthur."

Sir Rothby shook his head emphatically. "Not if she is accused of adultery. Then she will have to answer for her actions in open court."

"I thought she was so devoted to Arthur...?" Lavinia left the question hanging.

"She is now," said Sir Rothby, "but there was a time before that when she was quite fond of another man. Not that she said anything about it, but I could see it — Sir Lancelot, while he was here, had quite the hold on her fancy."

"Surely the past is of no use to us, though?" Lavinia asked, "How can it be of consequence what she once felt if she her affections are now bound to the king?"

"It could be if I say she has sent for her lover to return to her bed," said Sir Rothby with a smirk.

"You have proof of this?" Lavinia asked in surprise.

"What more proof do I need," asked Sir Rothby, "than to say that I saw her meet with her lover last week in the forest? The whole court is talking about the fact that Lancelot came within twenty miles of Camelot and was never seen openly — and now the king has received a mysterious message that he cannot be present at the tournament because he is detained elsewhere. No farther than a day or two from the court of Camelot and he does not show himself? That is suspicious, don't you think?"

Lady Lavinia shook her head. "Will it be enough? If it is your word against the Queen's..."

"Not only my word," said Sir Rothby delightedly, "but one of Arthur's own knights, Sir Gwaine, has practically accused her himself in front of half the court."

Lady Lavinia lifted her eyebrows incredulously.

"Oh, I don't suppose he meant it, or even meant to say it," said Sir Rothby. "What does it matter, though, now there are witnesses who cannot deny that at least one member of the court, known to be close to the king and queen, has said it?"

"She will protest her innocence," Lady Lavinia pointed out.

"I trust that she will," said Sir Rothby, "for according to the laws of the land, which Arthur has sworn to uphold, the way for a lady to prove her innocence in such matters is by a trial of combat."

Lady Lavinia began to smile in understanding. "And when it comes to defending the good name of his queen and protecting her from harm..."

"...there is no one Arthur would trust with Gwen's safety and happiness more than himself," Sir Rothby finished triumphantly. "He will have to face me in combat."

"No, that is one thing I cannot allow," Lady Lavinia protested. "You have done marvellously in this, sister, and shown that you understand the people of this court better than anyone, but I must be the one to fight him." She placed a hand tenderly upon Sir Rothby's cheek. "We both know I am the more experienced fighter."

Sir Rothby began to object and she shushed him with a finger laid across his lips.

"I know you would like to destroy Arthur by your own hand, but let me do this for you. You know that I can defeat him in combat. I have done so once before, and if I fall — hush now! — if I fall, Camelot will not lose its best hope of a queen who can finally end the persecution of those born with magic."

Sir Rothby took her hand and held it in his own. "I could not do this without you. If you fall, I do not think I could have the courage to do what must be done. I do not think I could be Queen of Camelot without you by my side."

Lavinia shook her head. "You are stronger than you know. Whatever happens, I believe that you will carry on and make this kingdom once more what it was before Uther's hatred destroyed the land."

They embraced and Sir Rothby, holding tightly to her as if Lavinia were about to face Arthur in combat that minute, said, "Sometimes I wish..."

Lavinia drew back and looked at him closely. "You aren't hesitating now, are you?"

"No, of course not," Sir Rothby said. "I was just thinking — just wondering what it might have been like, if it weren't Gwen and Arthur. If she had married anyone else. Or if he hadn't been Uther's son. None of this would be so hard."

"But he is Uther's son. You know what he thinks of magic. He has closed his eyes to the truth of his mother's death and shut his heart against anyone who uses magic, even for good. You know what he would do if he found you here," Lavinia reminded him.

Sir Rothby shut his eyes briefly, and when they opened they were glowing gold. "Then let it be done tomorrow. In the morning, when the council gathers to discuss the treaty, I will accuse Guinevere before the court."

"Good. And take care," said Lady Lavinia, "Arthur is sure to be angry."

"I can deal with Arthur," said Sir Rothby. "He's terribly predictable. He won't do anything while the presence of the delegation holds him in check. As soon as it is over, come to my chambers. We should exchange disguises as soon as possible in case we don't get another chance. I'm sure _Merlin_ or some other lackey will be watching us."

"Then take care, sister. Until tomorrow," said Lady Lavinia.

"Until tomorrow," Sir Rothby repeated. "And then it will be done, come what may."

* * *

Elaine had found an empty old crate to perch on while Lancelot went through his solitary exercises in the practice yard. After the trial match against Gregory, Lancelot had been most careful to stay out of the rest of the family's way, so he could rest a little before the tournament instead of being dragged out to practice night and day.

His head rarely twinged now from the blow it had received, but he wouldn't have minded a few more days of rest to recover from it, either. He had even, shamefully, hidden behind the door when Gregory came to seek him out again later for a rematch. He hadn't made such a poor show of it the first time around, it was true, but he'd felt himself a little unsteady towards the end and yielded when he was forced back into a corner rather than trying to fight his way out of it.

Gregory had taken his surrender with good humour, and given him a great deal of friendly advice on his brothers' tactics before allowing Lancelot to go off and rest. Lancelot couldn't fathom why Gregory had suddenly become so keen on helping him. Elaine said he had probably decided that it would look better if Lancelot beat the others but not him, which didn't seem very fraternal to Lancelot, but he had given up on trying to extract logic from any of Pelles' family.

Pretending not to be in his rooms had worked with Gregory, who only pounded on the door and stuck his head in when there was no answer, and Lancelot had successfully avoided going a final round with any of Elaine's brothers. Elaine herself had been more difficult to avoid. Even after another late-night training session, she had turned up bright and cheery to drag him down to the yard this afternoon.

Dragging was a literal term in this case, since Lancelot had unsuccessfully attempted to hide under the low bed when she came in despite his protests and he had got a bit stuck. Lancelot had tried to cower farther out of her reach and only ended up wedged in tightly against the wall. Fortunately Elaine had a good grip and a strong arm and none of Lancelot's concern for avoiding bumps and bruises along the way.

As soon as he emerged, feet first, she had changed her hold on his ankle for one on his wrist and marched him down to the yard for more practice. Since she was unable to train with him in the daytime, she settled for observing his form and making cutting remarks every time he deviated from the proper posture for sword fighting, as laid down in _The Arte of Combatte_.

She also supplemented Gregory's instructions on how to beat William and Sidney with instructions on how to beat Gregory, and went at even greater length into some of the dirty tricks that William liked to pull. The first time she compared Lancelot's private parts to raisins he almost dropped his sword in alarm.

"You don't think William's going to hold back when it comes to naughty words, do you?" Elaine asked complacently. "Try again," she said, and proceeded to utter such a string of filth while he was going over his footwork that he finished the sequence flushed all the way down his neck.

"Oh, and Sidney's ticklish, though you'd never know it," she added as calmly as if she'd just been discoursing on the weather. "Not that it's likely to do you much good to actually reach in and try to tickle him, you'd probably just get your hand cut off, but it does make him a little extra defensive if you can get your sword near his underarm. He sort of... flinches, and that can do all sorts of things like weaken his grip or make him over-cautious."

She made Lancelot run through a series of moves that she said were particularly important if he didn't want Gregory to wear him down right away, because he liked to come on with very flashy, aggressive bladework in the early stages and if you didn't keep out of his way it could be lethal.

"He always catches Sid with that, because poor Sidney can't help trying to block every move, even when there's not much force behind it. William does better, but of course he always wants to show off too, so he ducks and weaves more than he needs to and does most of Greg's work wearing himself out all on his own. I wish Papa would let me have a go against them, I'd love to give Greg a taste of his own medicine."

Lancelot agreed that she probably would and made noises about retiring to bed. It was only the reminder that he would be facing Sidney soon after first light in the morning that dissuaded her from keeping him there until dusk so they could square off against each other again, and even so she pouted. It wasn't an attractive pout. She looked like a child that has had its toy taken away and is about to begin wailing at any moment. Lancelot made his escape while he could.

If he thought of anything when he retired to bed that night other than strategies and defenses for the morrow's combat, it was a passing wistful thought that things would have been so much more peaceful if only he had reached Camelot. After that, he was fast asleep and his only thought was of his pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

Days of public audience were the strangest part of Gwen's new position at the court. Strange to see Arthur's face composed into a studied mask of grave and impartial judgment. He kept the same serious, ponderous look ready for every case, whether it was a stolen sack of grain from a storehouse, or a plea for help defending distant villages against bandits.

It made him seem more distant — kingly — but she thought that mask was nothing but his idea of what a king should be. He seemed more like a king to her when a flash of genuine concern showed through. She was proud to see that he considered every matter, however trifling it might seem, with equal care and gravity. She was prouder still when one of the people's stories touched her more than most, and she turned involuntarily to touch his arm, only to find an understanding in his eyes that showed he was just as deeply moved by the people's hardships as she.

Gwen remembered growing up in the lower town, knowing daily that they were close enough to touch the castle walls. She had even come to live part-time in the castle itself while she was still a young girl, working as a seamstress and then a maid. She had served the King's ward, stood mere paces away from the throne in the Great Hall, but even then she had never imagined its power as something she could turn to for aid.

King Uther had been a figure of awe and fear. To approach him for help in the wrong case was a dangerous refuge for the desperate. Most people simply turned elsewhere for help. Gwen tried to imagine what it might have been like if Arthur had sat on the throne when her mother was ill and found she could not. If the King had not been as cruelly indifferent as the sickness that ravaged her mother's body, what else might have been different? Would her father have asked for the court physician's help rather than working himself to the edge of illness himself to make the money to pay for her medicines? Would Elyan have stayed with them?

Perhaps nothing would have changed. Her father had always been so proud of earning everything for himself, and Elyan had always been so restless — even before their mother's illness. But Gwen felt that it would have made a difference, to her, to know that there was some help to be sought if their own inner sources of strength were worn out. There had not, though, and Gwen had found her strength where she could.

To think that now Gwen could reach out a hand, or speak a simple word... When a woman stood accused of stealing from the town apothecary, it was Gwen who pointed out that there were some complaints for which a woman might fear to visit the apothecary's shop openly. The town midwife was gravely ill at the time, leaving many women without help. The one who had broken into the shop had at least some knowledge of herbs and drugs; she might administer safely what in other hands could do great harm. If she were imprisoned — if some other woman, untrained in the healing arts, had to obtain the necessary drugs on her own, lying to the apothecary about the true reason, there was every chance it would result in her death.

Arthur listened gravely to Gwen's plea on the woman's behalf and lightened the woman's sentence to a night in the castle's cells, meanwhile ordering that the medicines she needed should be provided in future from the castle physician's stores. It had struck something like terror into Gwen's heart when she considered what her words had done. Arthur had thanked her later, when they were alone, for her counsel in the matter and she had found herself unexpectedly and helplessly bursting into tears.

"I don't know how to do this," she had said, through sobs that stole her breath from her. "It's too much, it's too much for any person to decide these things."

Arthur had hushed her, wiped the tears from her cheeks and drawn her into his arms. "Today you were the queen I always knew you would be," he said. "A queen to whom the people of Camelot are as dear as her own heart." He brushed a kiss across her temple, softly.

Now, with Arthur occupied by the increasingly frustrating political negotiations with Northumbria, Gwen was for the first time alone in the Great Hall, sitting on the throne and dispensing justice on her own. The most significant dispute for the day seemed likely to be the matter of the ownership of a hen who had wandered — or been lured, one claimant insisted — into a neighbour's coop. The neighbour denied any wrongdoing and claimed that the hen was rightly his in recompense for a number of eggs stolen from his own coop over the years. It made Gwen's head ache.

After warning them that the chicken would be confiscated if necessary to prevent any future chicken and egg questions, Gwen ordered them to mend their fences and returned the chicken to its original owner. The castle guard who had stood patiently by throughout the proceedings, holding the animal at arm's length, looked immensely relieved to let it go. Before its owner could depart in smug triumph, though, Gwen suggested mildly that she might send the castle guards to investigate the disappearance of his neighbour's eggs, if the situation continued. The owner of the chicken blanched, and the neighbour looked smug in his turn.

It was a petty, mean little argument, and did not make Gwen feel nearly as regal as she might have hoped. The chicken dispute was followed by a grocer with a broken apple cart, and then a thief who had stolen some hides from the tanner's and subsequently turned himself in. It turned out that the hides had not finished curing yet, and the stench had been so bad that the thief practically begged the guards to take him away — anywhere — so long as he could escape the smell of the tannery. Gwen ordered the man to pay the tanner twice the worth of the hides and ask for advice there on how to combat the smell.

The next person to be ushered in before the court, much to Gwen's surprise, was Sir Rothby. Gwen looked past him at first, expecting to find he was merely come to observe the proceedings like some of the other nobles, curious to see how the new Queen would acquit herself.

Sir Rothby approached the throne himself, however, and said, "I crave an audience with the King."

"He isn't here," said Gwen, rather obviously, caught off guard by the request. "He's with your uncle in negotiations. Why don't you look for him there?"

"This is not a matter for political negotiations," said Sir Rothby smoothly, unflustered by the curious eyes of the assembled court. "I have information of a very pressing criminal nature to put before the King. I must insist on addressing him before this court."

A murmur went round the court at his words.

"And can't you tell me what it is?" asked Gwen, bewildered and affronted. "I am here as his representative for the people today."

"It must be him," Sir Rothby insisted. "What I have to say concerns a trusted member of this court, and the only way I can ensure a fair hearing is to lay the case before him personally."

A discomforting thought came to mind. Sir Rothby had been so hostile to Merlin since his arrival — and Gwen was known to be partial to Merlin. "I am afraid if you wish to speak to the king," she said, "the question must wait—"

"There is a traitor at Camelot," Sir Rothby announced loudly, completely overriding Gwen's voice, "someone who has broken one of the kingdom's most fundamental laws."

Gwen's heart pounded in her chest with the beginnings of panic. Merlin and Sir Rothby had spent an entire morning alone together in the woods. Had Merlin slipped up somehow? To have this dragged out in public, before Merlin had a chance to explain — Arthur would never — but he mustn't find out like this, not with the eyes of all the court watching.

Gwen was in the middle of saying, "I'm sorry, Sir Rothby, but the council cannot be interrupted," when the doors burst open.

Arthur strode impatiently into the hall, the Earl of Northumbria hard on his heels.

"Guinevere, what's going on?" Arthur asked her, coming to stand by her and addressing her rather than Sir Rothby, whom he dismissed with a passing glance.

"It's not really that important," she said, speaking in an undertone and drawing him as far aside from the crowd as she could so that her voice wouldn't carry to the people who were watching the scene with avid curiosity. "I don't know why he sent for you, it can wait until after this is done."

"What does he want anyway?" Arthur asked, shooting an ill-humoured look at Sir Rothby, who responded with a slight bow.

"He says there's a traitor in Camelot," Gwen said in a whisper so quiet that she had to repeat it.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "A traitor in Camelot?"

Gwen shook her head desperately. "Whatever he has to say — not that I _know_ — but even if there is some truth in the matter, I don't trust him."

"You and Merlin," said Arthur, "you keep telling me that. At least between the two of you I know there's one person with a brain."

Gwen smiled a little through her nerves. "That's not fair," she said.

"Do you know who he's talking about?" Arthur asked.

"I — have an idea. I don't know. It could be nothing. Whatever it is, I beg you —" Gwen worried at her lip. "Don't let what he says make you think — it may not be what it looks like."

"Very well," said Arthur, "but we can't stand here whispering all day or the court will get fed up with us for postponing their lunch."

Gwen laughed despite herself. "We can't have that. There would probably be a revolt."

Arthur smiled back at her and offered her his arm with formal courtesy as they took their places. Since there was only one throne set up in the Hall today, he stood at her side.

"Right," said Arthur, "let's get this over with. Sir Rothby, what is it you have to say that is so important you felt it necessary to summon me away from matters of state?"

Before Sir Rothby could answer, Earl Rupert interjected, "I'm sure whatever _my nephew_ has to say will be worth the hearing, my lord. Do you keep everyone waiting for an audience like this, or is it only our delegation who are not welcome before your court?"

"Yes, thank you, Rupert," Arthur said, "we are ready to hear him now."

Sir Rothby waited until everyone watching them was silent and then spoke in a relatively quiet voice that nevertheless carried to the ends of the Hall.

"I have merely come to tell you," he said, "that your wife is known to have committed acts of adultery with one of your own knights, that she has betrayed you and by extension your people, and that she is, in a word, a traitor and a whore."

Gwen stared. Around her the court exploded into noise, but she couldn't move.

She had been tensed to expect a blow, but not like this. She had been thinking of Merlin, of magic and secrets, and not of words that made her want to curl up and disappear. She felt gutted, left hanging out to dry in front of the eyes of everyone around her.

She was vaguely aware of Arthur at her side, who had drawn his sword and was having to be restrained by two of his own knights from committing murder then and there. Gwen wished she could respond the same way, but even through her shock she knew that a sword could not cut the words out of the air. Nothing could do that.

"Let me go!" Arthur was yelling. "Guards! Take that man out of my sight. Get him out of this court, out of this castle, out of this _kingdom_ for daring to say —"

The guards, who were still hanging back uncertainly, edged closer to Sir Rothby's elbows, but stayed about a half a pace back, not quite closing the rest of the distance.

"What are you waiting for?" Arthur demanded, shaking off the hands that held him. He made no further move to attack Sir Rothby, but he still gripped his sword and his eyes did not waver from his target. "Take this man to the dungeons at once. I won't allow this in my court."

The guards still didn't move, and their eyes flickered desperately between the king and the man they had been ordered to take prisoner. Gwen's heart sunk even further.

"They can't," she said so faintly that even she could barely hear the words. She cleared her throat, reminded herself to keep breathing, and repeated it.

Arthur looked at her in amazement. "You don't suggest I should allow this — this slander?"

Gwen shook her head. "But they _can't_ ," she repeated. "They're commoners. They're not allowed to lay hands on a nobleman unless he's committed a crime according to the laws of Camelot." She felt sick, actually sitting there and defending the man who had attacked her. Why would no one else speak?

"And isn't slandering the Queen a crime?" Arthur asked incredulously. "That's a kind of treason, what is _wrong_ with all of you?"

"It seems to me," said Earl Rupert, in a sententious tone, "that you have a very strange idea of justice here at Camelot."

Arthur wheeled around to stare straight at him, with a look that should have spoken death to anyone intelligent enough to read it.

The Earl went on blithely, "Here my nephew, the presumptive heir of one of your most powerful allies —" Arthur raised his eyebrows in a profound look of disbelief that not even the Earl could misinterpret.

The Earl faltered a little, but continued, "Ah, yes, one of Camelot's traditional allies and you will not even hear the case he brings before you? Very much against his will, I am sure," he added with a pointed look at Sir Rothby as if to say, _you had better have a good reason for this_.

Sir Rothby returned the look with perfect equanimity. His uncle huffed and turned back to Arthur.

"Is this the kind of fair hearing the people of Camelot can hope to expect from their king?" he asked.

There was a weighted silence as the assembly waited for the King's response. The guards that stood at Sir Rothby's back tensed in preparation of further orders. Arthur drew himself up slowly and stood facing Sir Rothby, interposing himself directly between Gwen and her accuser.

"What possible reason could you have for what you have said here today?" he asked stiffly. The line of his back was taut and unyielding, still poised to spring at a moment's notice. Gwen saw his hand clench again around the hilt of his sword.

Sir Rothby's face was mostly hidden from Gwen's view, but she thought she saw the hint of a smirk twitching at the very corner of his mouth.

"Why, it was one of your own knights who gave me the idea," he announced with satisfaction. "Has not one of your knights mysteriously failed to make his appearance in Camelot, despite being seen just outside the border days ago? I believe his name is Lancelot."

"Lancelot?" The surprise was evident in Arthur's voice. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Perhaps nothing," said Sir Rothby disingenuously, "I suppose it could have been some other man I saw meet the Queen in secret in the woods just outside the castle." A shocked murmur ran around the court. "At the time I simply assumed it was her brother she was embracing, who I understand is also one of your knights? However since then I have learned that her brother is not at Camelot at present and that Sir Lancelot has been seen riding towards Camelot but has not made his presence known openly. This is true, is it not?" he asked, as calmly as if he were asking someone else to verify that it had rained on the day before.

"What you're saying is ludicrous," said Arthur, relaxing his sword arm a little. "Lancelot is miles away at the court of Sir Pelles."

"Ah, how silly of me," said Sir Rothby, in a light tone that Gwen didn't trust. "I suppose you know the messenger who informed you of this? You are certain that it could not have been intended to mislead you once Lancelot's presence in the area became known?"

He went on, and on. By the time he was done, Sir Rothby had spun a web of lies out of evidence as insubstantial as gossamer, that nevertheless stuck unpleasantly in Gwen's mind whenever she tried to untangle the threads.

Sir Rothby wanted to start calling witnesses as well, notably Sir Gwaine, but Arthur put a stop to it by saying, "That's enough. Guards, escort Sir Rothby to his chambers. He is not to leave them and or have visitors until this matter is cleared up."

Sir Rothby left smiling and Gwen would have liked, very much, to be the sort of person who could take satisfaction in smashing it off his face.

Instead she did the only sensible thing she could think of, which was to dismiss the remaining plaintiffs for the day, since the time for open appeals had been used up. Then she went to find the one person in Camelot who she trusted to help her unravel an impossible situation.

The guards stationed outside Sir Rothby's quarters were vigilant in their duties. They had no special love for the visiting knight, they had a great deal of affection for the young Queen, and they had been present in the Hall that day.

When Sir Rothby made a perfunctory effort to bribe one of them to let him wander the corridor outside for a while, the guard accidentally dropped the butt of his spear hard on the Sir Rothby's foot. No one could be blamed for such little accidents, after all, any more than they could for the fact that the other guard's attempt to pick it up nearly resulted in disembowelling Sir Rothby with his own spear. Sir Rothby retreated, glowering, back into his rooms and didn't attempt to bribe them again.

The guards could not be faulted, however, for the sudden drowsiness that overcame them soon after that. They slumped over in a stupor just as a cloaked figure that had been lurking around a corner slipped out into the open and through Sir Rothby's door. The same figure emerged a few minutes later without waking the guards from their sudden sleep and leaving no sign to indicate to anyone that the Sir Rothby who paced within the room was not the same Sir Rothby who had stood before the court a few hours before.

* * *

Merlin reassured Gwen that he could always turn Sir Rothby into a frog if need be, and scuttled off to the library to ask the court historian about legal precedents.

He almost collided with Sir Gwaine at the door, who came in looking wretched, like a kicked puppy that had been left out in the rain overnight. Gwen would have felt terribly sorry for him if he hadn't, according to Sir Leon, accused her of adultery in front of half the knights of Camelot.

"Gwen — Guinevere," he said, "I came to say, it wasn't — I didn't mean — I didn't say what he said, it was just a stupid — I'm sorry."

"All right, that's good," said Merlin, "let's go now, I'm sure she doesn't need to hear —"

Merlin was still trying to get him to leave when Arthur stormed in. He headed straight for Gwen, saying, "I'm sorry, Guinevere, I should never have allowed — what the hell is he doing here?"

"He was just leaving," said Merlin, tugging on Sir Gwaine's arm, but Sir Gwaine shook him off and took another step into the room.

"I came to see if there was anything I could do," said Sir Gwaine, "to apologize for my mistake in —"

"I think you've done quite enough for now, don't you?" Arthur spat. "Why don't you go find a tavern somewhere and shoot your mouth off about someone else who hasn't done anything to hurt you?"

"I only meant —" Sir Gwaine started.

"Merlin, get that man out of my sight," said Arthur with barely restrained fury.

"Arthur, you know he didn't mean —" Merlin began.

"Out of my sight!" Arthur yelled.

Once they had gone, Merlin coaxing Gwaine away and shushing his attempts at further apologies, Gwen came up and laid a hand on Arthur's arm.

"It's not so bad, is it?" she said. "I don't mind what anyone says about me."

"It's not what they say, Gwen. It's that I can't do anything to stop it. You know I would — damn it. You know I will _always_ do whatever is within my power to defend you?"

Gwen laid her other hand over his heart and looked steadily into his eyes. "I know," she said.

"But that the people should believe — you are their Queen. It isn't right. A queen should have the people's respect, not —"

"Not to be called —" Gwen broke off. "Yes, but what are we supposed to do about it?"

"I don't know," said Arthur, "damn him."

He began to pace the room like a caged animal, while Gwen looked out the window aimlessly.

How much would it matter? At court the circulation of vicious rumour sometimes seemed as much a part of day-to-day affairs as formal receptions and feasts. But would the real people of Camelot, the ones who worked its fields, who plied their trades in its towns and villages, truly care what tales were told of their Queen? It was nothing compared to having food stores to last the winter, or enough wood on the hearth, or safety from attack. No, it shouldn't matter what people thought of her. So why did it hurt so much?

* * *

"I'm sorry," Arthur said again, much later, pausing long enough in his pacing to lay a hand on her shoulder. "I should have listened to you when you said something wasn't right. I could have — I don't know, had him escorted to the council chambers and insisted on seeing him in private. Then when I'd run him through," he added with a gleam in his eye, "there wouldn't have been any witnesses."

Gwen sighed and, leaving the blood lust alone, pointed out that Sir Rothby would probably just have waited for the night's feast or some other occasion when he could make a public denunciation. Her reasoning did nothing to still Arthur's restlessness.

Arthur had been pacing intermittently since lunch, which he had eaten in intervals between circling the room like a caged beast.

The trouble was that he had already run out of things to do. His only idea was that Sir Rothby should be exposed as a liar and banished forever from Camelot. He had already summoned Sir Leon and learned that, first, Sir Gwaine had indeed made a public comment about Lancelot calling him the Queen's lover and, second, that the messenger from Carbonek had already departed and that to catch him up would take nearly as long as to send for Lancelot himself to return. Arthur had nodded despondently and dismissed Sir Leon so he could pace some more.

Merlin's return was a welcome relief, if only because he gave Arthur a new person to cross-examine. He staggered in beneath the weight of some extremely dusty tomes, presumably pried from the jealous fingers of the librarian, and returned Arthur's initial burst of excited questioning with a long-suffering expression.

"No, that's all right," said Merlin, "I don't mind, these aren't very heavy, I'll just put them on the table awaaaaay over there on the other side of the room, shall I?" which at least distracted Arthur for the time it took to roll his eyes.

"Have you found out anything useful or have you just been having a nice nap in the library?" Arthur asked him.

"I have, in fact, found out a lot. For example, did you know that Camelot actually operates on a massively complicated legal system based on customs that predate the formation of the kingdom? Apparently when Uther took over, he set out to preserve the ancient customs as much as he could, only, here's the interesting thing, no one can quite agree on what the ancient customs were. Except that everyone agrees there used to be a lot more eye-for-an-eye stuff and you had to pay a fine for chopping off someone's limbs if his family were important enough."

"And you are going to come to a point where any of this is useful..." Arthur prompted.

"Did you hear the bit where I said it was immensely complicated?" Merlin said defensively. "I've had Geoffrey explaining for _hours_ about the procedures for handling disputes among nobles and what happens if it comes down to one noble's word against another." He sighed. "Mostly it comes down to a lot of different ways of hitting each other with swords."

"I could just cut off his head," Arthur said hopefully. "Quick, simple, to the point, less reading."

Merlin nodded enthusiastically. "I know that would make me feel a lot better. Gwen?"

"It might start a war," she pointed out, "not that you should give that any consideration if it makes you both feel better. And it might remind people a little of — of other people who were killed on very little evidence," she added quietly.

Arthur collapsed heavily into a chair and put his head in his hands. "You know, I thought it was going to be great being king. The king is _supposed_ to be the ultimate authority in the land, able to determine the fate of the realm. Nobody told me I was going to have to base my decisions on —" he opened the uppermost book to a random page and read out, "the many uses of the lancet in the treatment of boils? Merlin, are you _sure_ these books are relevant?"

"Er, that one concerns a case where there was, erm, medical investigation of — you know what, I don't think we need that one," Merlin said, hurriedly shuffling it off the pile.

"Isn't there some way we could just —" Arthur threw up his hands in frustration "— prove that the little tick is, you know, _lying_?"

"Erm. That was what the medical text was about actually, but I don't think you want to — uh, that is to say. Not as such. Unless there are witnesses who can prove he had to have made the story up. Where were you really at the time he's talking about, Gwen, do you remember?" Merlin asked. "It was after Sir Gwaine arrived —"

Gwen shook her head hopelessly. "I was with the Lady Lavinia that particular day. Rupert's mother was there in the morning, but she left later. She said she was tired."

"What are the chances she'll tell the truth about that, do you suppose?" Merlin asked rhetorically.

"About the same as the chances she's not related to Sir Rothby, I'm afraid," Gwen answered anyway.

"Then we'll just have to find another way," said Arthur. "What did you find out about cases where people have accused a member of the royal family of — of breaking the law?"

He didn't seem to want to say the word "adultery" — Gwen couldn't really blame him, since she didn't like it much better herself.

"Well, no one actually accuses the king of breaking the law as such, they just sort of... declare war or try to assassinate him or mount a rebellion or something."

Arthur made a face. "This is all oddly reminiscent of events during my father's reign."

"Yeah, that's..." Merlin said apologetically, "He did sort of believe in executions as a first resort of the justice system."

Arthur indicated the pile of books about law and custom sitting before him. "I have to say, I'm beginning to see his point of view on absolute kingship."

"Don't say that," said Gwen. "Even if you don't mean it. Even if it's someone like Sir Rothby. It _matters_ that you care about giving people a fair trial and following the rule of law, even if you don't have to. No, it matters _more_ because you don't have to. How can the people ever trust in the law if the powerful flout it at their convenience? Sorry," she said, rubbing at her eyes, "it's been a long day."

Arthur didn't have anything to say to that, but he came back to her side to lean in for support, hers or his.

"Merlin, what about cases like this?" he asked. "What if it were any woman of the court who had been accused of ad—" Arthur stumbled over the word again "— of betraying her husband, would that even occasion a trial?"

"Well, erm, frankly there's not that much call for it," said Merlin, "because a lot of men don't exactly want to call attention to it if their wife has, um, found someone she prefers to him. I asked Geoffrey and he said it hasn't happened at Camelot in twenty years."

"What did they do about it then?" Arthur asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Erm. It didn't come to trial because the husband went into a rage, killed his wife and her lover and ran off naked into the woods convinced he was a bear." Merlin shrugged. "I told you it wouldn't be much help."

"Could we arrange for Sir Rothby to run off naked into the woods, do you think?" Arthur asked jokingly, but Gwen thought Merlin looked like he was considering it seriously and shook her head at him.

"But —" Merlin said.

" _No_ ," said Gwen firmly.

"Is there something here I'm missing?" Arthur asked. "Would you like me to leave the room so you could talk over my head in private?"

"I think that would be a bit difficult," Merlin said, garnering a raised eyebrow. "To talk over your head. Without you here. Never mind." He rolled his eyes at Gwen and Arthur made an exasperated gesture.

"I can still _see you_ ," he exclaimed. "Oh, forget it. Merlin, what about the last time there actually was a trial? There has been a case like that before?"

"Yes, but they, uh, executed her," Merlin said.

"This is not very helpful," said Arthur. "I refuse to accept a scenario where Guinevere is in danger of being executed."

"Oh good," said Gwen faintly, who didn't much like the idea either.

"Well, there was one other thing," Merlin suggested tentatively. "Not that it's a _good_ idea as such, but, er, it seems the woman was executed because no one would step forward to defend her name?"

"That's better," said Arthur, "what do I need to do to defend Guinevere's name?"

"She needs a champion," said Merlin, "according to the old customs, anyway, it's something to do with marriage disputes between families. If a woman's husband tried to, uh, get rid of her, her family could send a champion to defend her — and bring her home if they had to."

"Would Elyan have to fight?" asked Gwen, frowning over the idea. It wasn't that she doubted his willingness, but there was an old protectiveness towards him that was repelled by the idea of putting him in any kind of peril, especially over this sort of court intrigue. "But he's nowhere near Camelot right now."

"I don't think it would _have_ to be him," said Merlin, "it could be just about any knight, really, who swore to uphold and defend your name."

"And whoever it was would fight Sir Rothby?" Arthur asked. Merlin nodded. "Fine, I'll do it myself."

"Uh, that's not —" Merlin started, then looked at Gwen and said, "Wouldn't a frog be easier?"

"Merlin, how hard would it be for someone to find out about this tradition?" Gwen asked, a suspicion that had been troubling her for a while now growing and solidifying in her mind.

"Not that hard, I suppose," said Merlin. "That is, it takes a bit of digging around, but anyone could know about the practice, since it was pretty general in these parts before Uther's time. Why?"

"I have a bad feeling about this," she said. "The one thing I haven't been able to understand is why Sir Rothby should want to hurt me. He seems almost to despise me for some reason, but what could he possibly hope to gain from accusing me?"

"I'd swear the Earl didn't know what Sir Rothby was up to," said Merlin thoughtfully. "Not with the way he reacted."

"He was smug enough about it," countered Arthur, "although that could be his default reaction to everything."

"And you told me he was trying to do something... underhanded," Gwen said to Merlin, "about fighting Arthur yesterday."

"You don't think..." Merlin said. They shared a flash of sudden understanding.

Arthur looked between the two of them in confusion. "What? _What?_ "

Gwen felt sick. "Don't you see, Arthur, it's you he's after. I'm just — just his way of provoking you."

The thought made her angrier than she had been all day, even while she'd listened to herself being slandered before the court. The thought that she was being treated as nothing more than a pawn to be manipulated to attack the king. She didn't want to think it, but it was the only thing that made sense. Merlin was nodding along.

"You weren't going to be fighting in the tournament," said Merlin, "and you got out of fighting Sir Rothby at that practice — and that wasn't going to be any friendly practice match, either, I'd swear to it. He wants to kill you."

"He can want to kill me as much as he wants to," said Arthur finally. "If he wants to fight me, let him do his worst. No," he said as Gwen started to object, "I have to do this. If you had married anyone else, this wouldn't have happened. It's because you're married to me that the people who want to hurt me are using you to do it, and that — that isn't something I can forgive. And he isn't going to get away with it."

He left without another word and Gwen traded a look with Merlin. "You have to go —" she was saying, and before she had finished, he said, "Lancelot."

Gwen was already nodding. "He's the only one Arthur will allow to fight in his place."

"Besides, Sir Rothby already has him mixed up in this. He's accused him too," Merlin said.

"You think he'll come?" Gwen asked. "It isn't only that — that I don't want to see Arthur hurt, but he's the best one to fight and if — maybe if it isn't Arthur..."

"He'll come," said Merlin. "And if Sir Rothby tries anything — even if Arthur fights him, I won't let anything happen. I'll stop whatever he's planning to do."

"If I know Arthur, he'll set this as the first contest of the tournament," said Gwen. "That's in two days. It takes that long just to ride to Corbin... can you really get there and back by then?"

"Oh, just you watch me," Merlin promised with a grin. "I'll be back on the first morning of the tournament. Just don't let Arthur do anything monumentally stupid in the meantime?"

"I'll try." Gwen smiled. "But no promises."

Merlin hugged her quickly and then he was out the door at a run.


	7. Chapter 7

Chrétien didn't set much store by the tournaments at Carbonek. They meant more work for everyone and a lot of extra people wandering around the castle getting underfoot. Then again, they also kept the knights out of trouble. When there were no tournaments going on, the knights tended to get bored and decide that it would be a bit of fun to round up the servants and dress up in armour for mock battles. Considering the average training in arms that the servants received, this made for an exercise something akin to target practice.

So Chrétien was not, overall, averse to having regular tournaments to keep the knights busy. He only asked that no one try to make him take a practical interest beyond, say, reading up on the heraldry of the visiting knights. It was a useful task in itself, and helped ensure that nothing would happen as embarrassing as the time two families with a centuries-old blood feud had been seated side by side at dinner: they had had to take away all the knives on that side of the table and everyone had eaten their mutton with spoons, trying to glare each other to death.

His research also kept Chrétien out of the way of any knights who still weren't too busy to hit servants with training weapons.

There wasn't much to do by way of preparation for this tournament, though, because it was looking likely to be much less populated than last year's. Chrétien had personally written out some very nice invitations to be carried to the neighbouring kingdoms and baronies, but so far very few knights had responded (despite polite instructions to do so) and even fewer had actually turned up. It was true there was a rumour going around that Camelot was holding a grand tournament of its own to conclude some diplomatic negotiations, but the event hadn't even been formally _announced_. It showed a certain lack of consideration for the basic etiquette of tournament competition.

And yet even citizens of Carbonek — who by rights should have been flocking to the local entertainment — were streaming across the border in a gradual trickle that was only likely to increase over the next day or so. Anyone who owned a cart or a wagon could reach Camelot in three or four days at a good walk and many people were setting out early to establish their stalls on the first day.

The crowds who were gathering at Camelot to get their first look at the new King and Queen would provide rich opportunities for some of Carbonek's merchants, but Chrétien thought it seemed a little disloyal to their own King's importance. Not that it was entirely their fault if the new King of Camelot didn't know any better than to schedule his first event to conflict with the days when the tournament at Castle Corbin was held. If even the knights of Carbonek chose to display their prowess at Camelot, the commoners could scarcely be blamed for choosing to display their wares there as well.

Privately, Chrétien thought that this Lancelot fellow's presence was nothing more than the King's desperate bid to keep up the entertainment value in case no one at all decided to come next year. It was, perhaps, an extreme measure to offer up his daughter's hand in marriage as a prize, but it had created some interest in the proceedings.

Chrétien had managed to avoid so much of the preparations that he was taken by surprise at the actual dawning of the event. Everyone else seemed to be rushing around in a frenzy and he was nearly conscripted by the head cook, the chief armourer, and the stable master before he could escape.

He had provided himself with an excuse in advance by informing Pelles that some of the family archives required urgent maintenance. It was true enough in its own way. One of the brighter minds of an earlier generation had decided that the castle cellars, carved out as they were from damp, boggy ground, entirely useless for any important part of the fortifications, such as walls or buttresses, would do nicely to house some old bundles of parchment that no one wanted for anything.

Later, more frivolous generations had installed shelving in the cellar that at least preserved their own records from seasonal flooding, although it left the pages still exposed to the damp. Some of these documents were indeed in desperate need of repair, although it seemed likely that only a divine hand could save them from eventual disintegration. Chrétien's only idea for saving a select few was to smuggle them out singly to the nice safe, dry atmosphere of his own room.

The tournament had seemed the ideal chance to preserve a few more volumes from decay, when all the people who just didn't understand about books would be safely out of the way on the field outside, happily occupied by hitting each other with sharp, pointy things. In his foraging the other day for Pelles' favourite family histories, Chrétien had come across a promising romance in which two knights of the ancient Roman empire vied for the love of a virtuous maiden and, if his interpretation of the illustrations was correct, both died in an unrelated encounter with a giant.

Chrétien had already imagined retelling the tale and naming the two knights Sir William and Sir Sidney respectively. He also thought it might round out the narrative nicely if there were a third knight, named Sir Gregory, who also perished at the giant's hands. As soon as he had muddled out the bits of Latin he could understand, he would write a new and exciting version based on these improvements. There was nothing _wrong_ with romances as a genre, Chrétien considered. It was simply that they so often failed to take into account the fact that most knights were a bunch of buffoons. He could correct that error.

What great masterpiece of literature he might have achieved on the topic, history may never know. He was intercepted on the way back to his room by Gregory, and stuffed the romance quickly under his tunic in case Gregory tried do something strange and terrible, like read it.

"Ho, you! Uh —" Gregory paused in deep contemplation.

"Chrétien," said Chrétien, a little impatiently, since the book concealed beneath his clothes was starting to slip.

"Yes, yes, I know who you are," said Gregory with a dismissive wave. "You do things with... with books and such for my father, don't you?"

Chrétien sighed and hitched the book up by way of an awkward shrug. One of its corners poked into his stomach. "Yes, I do 'things with books'," he agreed.

"Family chronicles?" Gregory pressed on. "You record important events of our family?"

"Er, yes, I suppose so," said Chrétien, who mostly took notes at meetings for Pelles so he didn't forget later who he was supposed to be at war with.

"Right, you're just the man I need, then," said Gregory heartily. "Someone ought to be there for the fight today, you know, record the event for posterity."

"You mean your sister's... marriage?" Chrétien asked tentatively. "You think this, uh, Lancelot is going to win, then?"

"Maybe, maybe. We'll see, won't we?" Gregory sounded very pleased with himself. "Maybe you could do some sort of poetry. I hear that's very popular in some of the courts hereabouts. Better yet, make it a song. The three trials of the sons of Pelles. With particular note of what happens in each and who comes out victorious in the end, all right?"

Chrétien shrugged again. "I was supposed to work on your father's library today..."

"Oh, that's just books," said Gregory airily. "Those'll keep, won't they? Can't miss the tournament, man, that's where the real history is written."

With a resigned nod, Chrétien promised to be down in the stands in a few minutes, and went to conceal his new-found treasure where no one, including he, would be able to get at it for the rest of the day. Then he trudged along to watch the tournament. It wasn't as if he was going to enjoy it.

* * *

Lancelot stepped out onto the field with a parade of advice marching through his head. The presence of the watching crowd barely registered through the crowding of his thoughts.

Feint to the left, Gregory had said, and Sidney was more likely to believe the move was genuine. Lancelot couldn't remember now why that should be. Was it some childhood injury? A hunting accident? And could he believe any advice given to him by Gregory about his own brother?

Elaine had suggested striking from below as much as possible, because Sidney favoured overhand blows and didn't anticipate the opposite from his opponents. It wouldn't do for Lancelot to lower his defenses, though, or he might end up with a lump on his head to twin the first that Sidney had fetched him.

Sidney was already waiting for Lancelot in front of the stands, sword in hand and helmet under one arm, waiting to salute him before the fight. Lancelot’s own armour — or rather Elaine's — rested oddly against his body. Not a bad fit, but then it had been made to measure for another and could never feel exactly right on anyone else, no matter how close a match. Or perhaps it was simply that Lancelot had grown so used to fighting without any armour at all, except the inadequate protection of whatever clothes he had on his back at the time, that no armour felt right anymore, constraining his muscles from their natural movement.

He would have preferred, if possible, armour that could shield him from the collective gaze of the spectators. He had thought, after fighting before Hengist and his men, where the slightest slip could mean sudden, painful death, that he could not be fazed by any observers. The crowd here was something altogether different, though. There had been a murmur of conversation when he arrived that now died down to an expectant hush as Lancelot took his place.

This was no band of ruffians looking for a bit of tawdry amusement at their feast. Even the peasants weighed him with eyes that had watched dozens of royal tournaments at Carbonek and seen the best in knighthood that the kingdom had to offer.

Lancelot returned Sidney's salute and turned to face the royal stands. Pelles sat in the highest place, his daughter on one side and his elder sons on the other. For a moment, though, Lancelot imagined a different face — a different pair of faces — looking down on him, about to undergo this trial.

When Sidney turned back to face him for a final salute, Lancelot hesitated, then addressed the King.

"My lord, King Pelles," he said, "it is my honour to fight today in your daughter's name. But let it be known that I fight first and always for the honour of Camelot and in the name of its Queen, Guinevere, who stands for all that is good and honourable and just in a woman."

He bowed once more and returned to his place on the field feeling light-headed. Sidney, although he looked surprised by Lancelot's impromptu speech, returned his final salute and replaced his helmet without a word as the two prepared for battle.

* * *

In the stands, Chrétien found himself clutching excitedly at the sleeve of the person next to him. Gregory looked at him like he was a pesky insect and Chrétien removed his fingers hastily before Gregory could decide to swat him. Chrétien gripped the hem of his own tunic instead, unable to stave off his growing excitement.

All the spectators seemed to be watching in tense anticipation as the two swordsmen squared off against each other. Chrétien didn't understand the source of their suspense. It was clear to him, it had been clear to him from the moment that the man had strode towards the stands, sunlight flashing off his armour, that Lancelot would emerge the victor, whatever else might happen in the bout. And then that speech. _Ordinary_ knights didn't talk like that, not the ones who rode around and knocked each other into mud puddles and then laughed about it. Here was a man who had devoted his soul to, to — what was it he had said? "Virtue and nobility and goodness?" No, that wasn't it. Oh, why did the events have to drag on so much when what Chrétien needed was to find parchment and quill and write down those words for the immortal ages.

Chrétien's heart glowed with an inner fire as he watched the match. He didn't understand what was happening. The world of combat was a closed book to him, although he vowed that from this day forward he would make a better study of it. The only certain knowledge he had about the fight was that every move of Sir Sidney's was ignorant and ungainly, that Lancelot's every move was studied perfection, that even when he seemed to falter, it was only a strategic retreat to bolster his position. Even when Lancelot staggered briefly under the weight of a blow from Sir Sidney, catching it on his shield so he was driven almost to his knees, Chrétien did not doubt that he would rise in a moment like Victory rising up out of Defeat.

His blossoming faith was justified at last when, to a mixture of shocked silence and tentative applause from the crowd, Lancelot rolled neatly beneath Sir Sidney's too-wide sweep of the blade and caught him a blow to the backs of his knees that made him stumble and fall heavily upon the ground. As Lancelot stood over his opponent's body and heard his surrender, Chrétien did not wait to be swept up in the general applause. He lept to his feet cheering the victor's name, heedless of how long it took the king to stand and add his approval, unleashing a gradual roar among the other observers.

* * *

Lancelot staggered off the field, sweating profusely, his muscles sore and his very core shaking at the after-shocks of the blows he had absorbed. Sidney followed a pace or two behind him, clinging to the support of his squire. Although Lancelot had been as careful as he could to catch him with the flat of his sword, not wishing to cut a hamstring or incapacitate the man, there would be no telling what the result had been until Sidney was examined by a physician. Lancelot felt he needed, at the least, a long bath and possibly a solid week of sleep before he picked up a sword again.

Before he could reach the castle, though, he was accosted by a roughly familiar face. It was one he had seen before, somewhere during the last few days — ah, yes, the king's servant who had looked so aloof when he handed over the sword. Now he seemed so excited he was dangerously near to taking flight under his own power. He spoke so quickly and indistinctly that Lancelot wasn't entirely certain what the words meant, except that they seemed to be, on the whole, a favourable reaction to the outcome of the first contest, and some form of congratulations.

"Yes, thank you," Lancelot said, and then when the servant's name came back to him, "Chrétien. I will see you at tomorrow's match then?"

Chrétien babbled something else, but by then the King was at his side and Lancelot seized gratefully on the excuse to leave. He was less thankful when he discovered that his victory had secured him an invitation — nay, a royal summons — to attend a banquet that very afternoon. Lancelot had hoped for, even depended on, the same polite neglect he had received from the castle at large since his arrival, but it seemed that the first match had attracted enough attention to warrant showing him off publicly at the high table.

* * *

Lost in the tide of the departing crowd as it flooded away from the tournament grounds, Chrétien's excitement burst, so far as that was possible, into even greater waves of delight. Lancelot had remembered his name! And spoken so kindly. Clearly he was indeed the gentlest and the best of knights.

Chrétien recollected the story of the Roman knights and the giant, which had captured his imagination so recently, and considered now how lacking it was in the true sense of heroism. Perhaps it would be better, after all, if the unworthy knights who failed against the monstrous creature were only the prologue, the forerunners, to a tale of even greater skill and courage. Their deaths would be succeeded by the story of the truly noble knight, Sir Lancelot, whose strength and virtue alone could vanquish the giant. His valiant task complete, he would then return to place the head of the giant before the feet of his Lady Guinevere, most noble Queen of Camelot.

Head filled with these bloodthirsty thoughts, Chrétien made his way in a daze back to his own rooms and began to write The Most Noble and Courageux Exploits of Sir Lancelot, only to leave off in the middle of a beautiful speech by Sir Lancelot because he remembered that he was supposed to be present at the feast to celebrate his new hero's victory. Besides, he had seen some mouthwatering chickens being prepared earlier in the day and it wouldn't do to arrive after they had all gone.

* * *

Merlin had not, strictly speaking, ever found a way to travel faster by magic than by ordinary means. He could slow down his perception of time, which allowed him to react to things happening so fast he wouldn't ordinarily be able to see them. He'd tried running like that once and ended up feeling like he was wading through a thick stew. Time, somehow, stuck. It stuck to his legs, making them feel heavy and slow; it stuck to his arms until they dragged like lead weights; and once, he was convinced, it had even stuck to his shoe and pulled it off because it couldn't keep up.

Arthur had laughed when Merlin returned half-shod and asked if Merlin needed lessons on tying his own shoes, but Merlin knew what was really to blame. Time was a bastard and a half to try to manipulate and it usually found a way of getting its own back.

Besides, there was Lancelot to think about this time. Merlin didn't think he could carry his friend all the way back to Camelot, which meant travelling by horse. Seeing as Merlin was... doubtful of his ability to make himself go faster using magic when it was just him, he didn't much fancy the idea of starting to experiment while on horseback.

Well, there were other ways of travelling long distances quickly. Merlin had read about them many times in his book of spells. It was true he had never exactly tested them before, because Gaius had frowned and done that severe thing with his eyebrows that happened whenever he thought an idea was more than usually stupid by Merlin's standards, and said things like, "only in cases of the greatest exigency" and "at least allow me to notify your mother in advance so she can prepare for your funeral."

That was all very well, but Gaius was somewhere off in the wild countries, studying magic and herbs with his one true love, so he wasn't in any position to give disparaging advice. If this wasn't "a case of the greatest exigency," Merlin didn't know what was.

The spell was another version of the one Merlin had used when he had gone to track down Lancelot and Gwaine after Arthur's coronation. It wouldn't have done for the newly appointed royal councillor to be too long absent from the king's side in those crucial early days, so Merlin had found a spell that let him make his own short-cuts between Camelot and distant kingdoms. Some might have called it cheating, but Merlin had been privately convinced that Arthur wouldn't be able to work out how to put on his new crown without help, never mind all those complicated velvet robes, and so the more quickly Merlin could summon their old friends and be back by his side, the better.

It was a spell to "bring me to there" — "there" being anywhere, presumably, you could see or were familiar enough to hit on the first try. If you could see a long way ahead of you on the road, you could sort of... _nudge_ yourself a bit farther along. Merlin's initial attempts had gone smoothly enough, although he did tend to trip right afterwards and have to climb out of the inevitable ditch that resided beside the new patch of road.

Travelling to unfamiliar destinations was trickier, and something that Merlin had avoided after the first try. Fortunately the townspeople of Ulm had taken him for a harmless lunatic when they found him clinging to the branches of a fir tree and called off the dogs. He hadn't been on horseback then, of course. Long journeys on horseback had traditionally involved Arthur and those were not, in Merlin's experience, a good time to start experimenting with magic.

The new spell that Merlin had in mind worked on the same principle. At least, he thought it did, because the words were similar and it was in the same section of his magic book. It was supposed to open a bridge or a gateway or something to the place you were going, through which more than one person (or horse) could pass.

It translated more or less to "bring that which is there to here." With luck the magic wouldn't take that literally and fold the land together, creating unexpected mountains. Merlin had a feeling he might have some explaining to do if the geography of Camelot got radically altered overnight.

He rode normally while the daylight lasted. He wanted to be well out of sight of town, castle, and its citizenry before he started experimenting with potentially dramatic spells. There was also less chance of running into other travellers on the road after dark, or if he did, there was less chance of them recognizing the person waving his arms around and incanting strange magical words.

Once he was reasonably sure that no one was lurking nearby in the woods, waiting for him to display spontaneous acts of illegal magic, Merlin closed his eyes and pictured an inn on the very border of Camelot's territory with Carbonek. He had been there several times on border-patrol with Arthur and was quite confident that he would end up at a safe distance from the inn without any unintended meanderings along the way. He spoke the spell as confidently as he could and was reassured to find, when he opened his eyes again, that the road was now enclosed in a shining arch that led, presumably, to his chosen destination.

He spurred his horse on and headed straight for the sparkling, shimmering hoop of air before him. He couldn't help shutting his eyes again as it approached, not quite wanting to see what would happen if things went wrong.

There was a funny, twisty feeling that squirmed around in his chest for a moment, as if individual parts of his internal organs were arguing about which way to go. Merlin held his breath and hoped for the best.

When he peeked out at his new surroundings, he found himself sitting in an almost identical patch of woods to the one he had just left, but from which the familiar inn lights beckoned warmly. The only problem was the lack of horse to sit on. Merlin landed with a thump on the muddy ground and wondered dazedly why the horse hadn't come with him.

On the other side of the portal, the horse waited patiently. Horses were sensible creatures. They were willing to put up with a lot of gallivanting about the countryside, carrying impatient humans who dug their heels into the horses' flanks to impress upon them the relative importance of the stable they were going to over the one they had just left. The horses tried not to get philosophical about this, no matter how silly it might seem.

Horses also knew that when strange, unfamiliar things appeared out of nowhere dead ahead, the best plan was not to run headlong into them. Whatever foolish things humans did were their own problem. If this one didn't come back, it was no skin off the horse's nose. She knew her way home and there would be a bag of oats waiting for her whether or not the human came back with her.

Still, horses do have an inherent sense of decency, so it couldn't hurt to wait around a few minutes and see if the human survived his encounter with the big glow-y thing.

Merlin walked back through the portal imbued with a great deal more confidence and mud.

"Okay, listen here," he Merlin, in what he felt was a reasonable manner to take with a horse. "It's a two day ride getting to Castle Corbin, right? And two days getting back. That's a lot of running around, and I'm sure if I find it tiring to ride for that long, you must find it even more so, what with being the one actually doing the running part. On the other hand, here's this nice, glowy portal that takes us a day's ride along the road all at once, so you can spend the night in some comfortable stables instead of out in the open. You can't ask for better than that, could you?"

The horse gave him a sceptical look. Well, it flicked its ear, but Merlin felt sure it was a _sceptical_ ear.

"Honestly, it's perfectly safe," he insisted. "You just saw me go through and come back, didn't you?"

The horse took a step or two nearer the glowing thing in the middle of the road and sniffed at it tentatively. Then it nudged at the actual shimmering part with its nuzzle, and sniffed again. It stumbled back again and sneezed.

"It's not that bad," said Merlin reassuringly. "It'll just take a second, and then you can be in a nice comfortable stable yard, with all the... the carrots and oats you could want to eat. And a nice warm blanket. You'll like that, won't you?"

The horse's ears had pricked up at the mention of oats. Humans can keep their strange ideas about the preferability of one locale over another. Horses understand that the most important thing is a warm stable and a reliable supply of oats. Home is the most reliable place for finding all of these, and thus creates an instinctual draw for animals of any intelligence at all. This particular horse was, however, willing to accept the premise that an unfamiliar place _with oats_ is much better than a strange one without any. The horse went forward at a cautious walk.

Merlin followed on foot. He had no desire to get any more muddied or bruised than he already was.

* * *

The feasting carried on till midnight, with a short, purely perfunctory intermission to mark the gap between mid-day and evening meals. It seemed the tournament, which Lancelot had taken for a convenient fiction of Pelles', was in fact an established event in Carbonek and one for which a great deal of entertainment had been prepared. True, there were few participants this year besides himself and Pelles' sons, but the festivities were as lavish as ever.

Lancelot counted no fewer than eight minstrels wandering the Great Hall, vying for the attention of the noble guests, while jugglers and clowns held court farther down the hall among the commoners allowed temporary access to the indulgence of the castle. Lancelot wished several times he could join them. He would have been more comfortable there, he felt, than in a place of high honour that laid him open to universal scrutiny. Not to mention at the mercy of the servant who offered to refill his wine glass at every sip purely for the pleasure, it seemed, of bumping into his elbow.

Each of Elaine's brothers drank Lancelot's health with better or worse degrees of sincerity. Sidney was the one who, unexpectedly, seemed the most pleased with his fate in the first contest. It confused Lancelot to no end that he seemed more cheerful now than before his defeat, until the man leaned in during the lamentably bad performance of one minstrel to confide that he felt much better knowing Lancelot had finally got "his own fair knocks in" on Sidney in return for earlier favours.

Gregory ignored Lancelot for the most part. He looked as if he were not quite sure his meal agreed with him, and spent most of his time staring down at his plate in deep contemplation, as if trying to determine by sight whether someone had poisoned the meat.

William smiled at Lancelot frequently and disarmingly as if he were mentally picturing the most efficient way of snapping off one of Lancelot's limbs, which was an uncomfortable look to be on the receiving end of. During an intermission in the entertainment, he slipped away with a comment about preparing for the morrow, pausing by Lancelot's side to whisper in his ear as he left.

"What did William say to you?" Elaine asked. She had been petulant throughout the meal and hardly spoken a word to him, although they were seated side by side at the table. Lancelot couldn't decide if he had offended her by declaring his loyalty to Camelot and Guinevere or whether she were sulking over not participating in the tournament herself.

"He told me, ah —" Lancelot cleared his throat "— that I had better make up my mind about which of them to lose to because if I beat them all and actually tried to marry you, your father would have me executed."

"Oh, nothing important then," said Elaine dismissively, and when Lancelot said it could very well turn out to be important to him, she added, "Father isn't keen on executions. William's probably made it all up just to throw you off tomorrow's contest. Really, it's not likely at all."

Lancelot would have preferred something a little more definitive.

The current minstrel's song finally came to a close, to desultory applause that turned genuine when it dawned on the assembly that he was really and truly finished. Lancelot spotted the king's servant, Chrétien, in close consultation with a very young performer who was that instant receiving a sheaf of pages and hurried instructions in an undertone while his predecessor took a final bow. Then the young performer was shoved forward towards the high table with a wide-eyed look of terror on his face to announce, "La Count of Sir Lancelot, and the Wagon, on Which His Lady was Abducted."

Lancelot listened with dawning horror to two verses in which his virtues were listed, somewhat mangled by the reader whose last-minute instruction had clearly failed him and who was mixing in portions of a French ballad out of desperation. When the reader arrived at a description of his "most noble thighs," Elaine spit out her soup and Lancelot took advantage of the distraction to flee.

* * *

Arthur was finding solace in hitting things. He had started out against his knights, but left them in Leon's hands after it became apparent to him that he was in no mood for teaching. He took himself off to practice hitting dummies instead, much to the relief of his opponents, who were already bruised enough by that point. When he tired of the dummies, he went to find Merlin.

Bursting into the royal councillor's chambers, he got as far as, "— slacking off just because you've got a fancy set of togs now —" before he realized that Merlin wasn't in them but that Guinevere, surprisingly, was.

Arthur quickly dismissed several choice epithets he had been planning to use.

"Guinevere, good, here you are," he said, coming forward and kissing her. "What a pleasant surprise. Why _are_ you here, exactly?"

Gwen sighed. "I've been besieged all day by well-meaning ladies of the court who keep coming to tell me that they 'don't believe a word of it, of course, how scandalous, but this Lancelot, is he any, you know, _any good_?'"

Arthur made a face. "The knights aren't saying anything at all to me if they can help it. I suppose they've all heard by now about the trial by combat. I think you were right about that, by the way, Rothby looked positively smug when I challenged him."

Gwen's expression said, "I told you so," although her lips kindly refrained from forming the words.

"I just thought I'd better get some practice in before the fight," Arthur said, before he realized that bursting in clutching a sword in his hand was probably an adequate demonstration of this. "Have you seen Merlin, by the way? I thought he might want —" _under duress, if necessary_ , he thought "— to get some practice in as well."

"Um," Gwen said and bit her lip. Her attention was suddenly absorbed by the wall, then the ceiling, then a fascinating bit of hay on his shirt that she removed with exquisite care.

"Guinevere," said Arthur, "is there something going on that I'm not going to like?"

It was a pretty fair bet that there was, whenever Merlin's name was mentioned and Gwen felt the need to hide it.

Gwen stared very hard at her hands, worried at her lip, and finally said, "All right, but please don't... you mustn't mind it. It isn't because we think you aren't just as good as— You're a very good swordsman, probably almost the best..." Gwen trailed off.

" _Almost_? I wasn't _almost_ the best knight in Camelot," Arthur said. "I didn't _almost_ win every tournament, I am not _almost_ —"

"Er, yes," said Gwen, wincing, "but there was, uh, someone else who we thought might be better — just for this fight, I mean. Sort of symbolically."

"Symbolically," Arthur repeated. Gwen was still looking everywhere but at his face.

"Merlin'sgonetofetchLancelot," Gwen said at last, in a rush.

Arthur took a moment to untangle that, then said slowly, "Lancelot." Gwen nodded. "Lancelot, who in any case won't be here for four or five days, because he's participating in some tournament in Carbonek. That Lancelot."

"Merlin thought he could shave a little time off of that," Gwen said hesitantly. "You know, take a few short-cuts."

Arthur snorted. "Right, I'm sure he could get there in time by flying."

"No!" Gwen exclaimed. "I mean, I'm sure he isn't _actually_ going to fly, at least I don't think so, I mean, how ridiculous!"

"Yes, it was a joke, Guinevere," Arthur said slowly. "Merlin can't actually fly. We both know that."

"Of course, that's what I meant." Gwen gave a forced laugh. "That's very funny, Arthur."

Arthur nodded at that, frowning. "Don't you think you'd better have a lie-down? I think the stress must be getting to you."

"No, no, it's fine," Gwen assured him. "Only, you should think about it. Letting Lancelot be the one to fight, I mean. Not just because you're the king and that's important, but because he's been slandered as much as I have. He should have the right to defend his own name too, shouldn't he? And if it _is_ you Sir Rothby is after, it only makes sense to take his target away from him, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so," Arthur admitted. "And Lancelot _would_ be the logical choice to take my place, if anyone did, but —" he added as Gwen started nodding a little too eagerly "— if he isn't here by then, I _will_ fight Rothby myself. I won't let anyone say I had doubts about your honour."

He bowed, feeling a little self-conscious at the formality, and took her hand to kiss it. It was worth the foolish gesture though to hear a helpless giggle escape Guinevere before she could stop it, and to find her watching him from beneath her eyelashes when he straightened up.

"If it's true you _are_ the greatest knight in Camelot—" Gwen began in a teasing voice.

"Which I am," Arthur agreed pleasantly.

"—at least for the moment," she amended, adding before he could object, "then do you really need to go back to training right away?"

She began to toy with the lacings of his shirt, loosening them so she could slip her hand gently underneath one edge and run her fingers lightly over his collarbone.

"Er, yes, on the other hand," said Arthur, his voice going suddenly wobbly. "On the other, ahem, ah, hand, I'm really very good at fighting already. I don't — hm! — need to go back out there right away or anything. Would you like—" he caught up Gwen's wandering hands to kiss, since they were getting very distracting, roaming over his chest like that "—to return to your chambers for a while, my lady?"

Gwen positively smirked. "You know, there is a bed in here."

" _What_?" Arthur maybe, possibly, yelped a bit at that. "But that's _Merlin's_ bed. We can't just —"

"He won't know," said Gwen. "And we wouldn't have to dodge courtiers trying to interrupt us. No one comes to bother Merlin like that."

" _I_ will know," objected Arthur. "I'll _always_ know. I'll think about it the next time I see his face. I don't want to think about that sort of thing when I —" his rant was cut off by Gwen's lips, pressed insistently against his own.

After that he stopped worrying about whose bed it was, so long as the sheets were soft.


	8. Chapter 8

The beds at the inn were lovely and warm and soft, which only served to drive home how very hard and scratchy and cold the stables were to sleep in.

The innkeeper had been very pleasant and welcoming when Merlin asked for a bed for one of the King's privy councillors, but less than impressed when Merlin turned out to be that councillor, rather than his servant. Apparently there were reasons that went beyond Arthur's private amusement for Merlin to be seen in showy, expensive robes. Merlin had thought that a day or two away from court would be the perfect opportunity to return to his old, comfortable clothing, but this meant that, as far as the innkeeper was concerned, Merlin was only fit to sleep with the horses.

Merlin did consider introducing his horse as the king's advisor and demanding it be given the comfortable bed — if a Roman emperor could do it, why shouldn't the court of Camelot? But on reflection he decided that Arthur wouldn't much like hearing rumours that he was following in the footsteps of Caligula. It was the sort of thing that tended to put a damper on public opinion for a young king.

Merlin hadn't realized how readily he'd adapted to his fine new bed at Camelot until he tried sleeping on a pile of feed sacks. When he climbed back on horseback the next morning, his joints positively _creaked_ from the awkward position he'd slept in. He was sure he was going to find some interesting bruises later. And what was with that straw? He was sure straw hadn't been that prickly when he was a servant.

The horse, who had slept standing up, listened to Merlin's litany of complaints about the bed without a great deal of sympathy.

If Merlin had worried at all about finding his way to Castle Corbin, he needn't have done. Although he left the inn at the break of dawn, there were already people on the road, first the odd carter, then a steady stream of passersby flowing towards the castle. From them, Merlin learned that there was a tournament being held at Carbonek, one that had already begun. Some of the peasants on the road had not attended or meant to attend the tournament at all, but yesterday there had been rumours of a new knight in the contest, someone who had defeated one of the king's sons, and it had piqued their interest.

The tale seemed to have grown in the telling. Merlin thought it unlikely that the strange knight had an extra arm, the sword of a giant, and the speed of a pixie. He did think it likely, however, that Lancelot might have been drawn to a contest of arms, and so he followed his fellow travellers towards the action.

There was no space left on the tournament grounds for Merlin to tie up his horse, so he led it to a deserted spot a little off the forest path and tied the reins to a tree. Then he muttered a few words under his breath and watched it fade from sight. The horse made a slight noise of protest when it noticed that its feet had disappeared. It was probably giving him a reproachful look as well, but Merlin couldn't see it. Merlin patted its now invisible nose consolingly.

"You'll be all right," he said. "Better than having a run-in with bandits or horse thieves. No one'll bother you this way."

The horse didn't find being invisible a particularly comforting experience even by those standards and expressed this to her best ability.

"Ow," said Merlin, holding his ear and gingerly feeling for teeth marks. "I'll be back before nightfall, so just you — graze, or think horsey thoughts, or whatever it is you do in your spare time."

The horse gave a final whinny of protest, but Merlin took no notice, plunging back into the trees and leaving the horse to contemplate how it was she kept finding herself in these situations. She had the distinct idea that the other horses in the royal stables didn't have to go through this kind of thing.

While the crowd milled around awaiting the main event, Merlin found a stall selling the kind of gingerbread his mother used to make: crumbs of every type glued together by honey so that the whole confection stuck to the back of your throat and could even stop you breathing if you weren't careful to keep it moving around.

The gingerbread they served at Camelot just wasn't the same. It was made, for one thing, from good bread crumbs, not the kind that had sat around in the crevices of a kitchen table, acquiring character and refinement until they were dug out by the frugally minded baker and assembled into a thick and gooey delicacy.

Merlin dislodged a large, sticky crumb from his molars with a grin. The mix of sweetness and glottal blockage brought back a wave of homesickness, and he let himself be buoyed along by the happy excitement and chatter of the people around him as if he had stepped back into the market fairs of his childhood.

There was a gradual general movement toward the stands as anyone who hadn't yet found a seat or a square foot of standing room made their way into the last available inches of space. Merlin dodged and wove his way between spectators, stepping over and sometimes on top of other people's feet, leaving a chorus of shouts and complaints to rise up behind him. Before the injured feet could do anything about it, though, Merlin was standing up in the very front row, leaning casually against the fence, as calmly as if he had been there all along. One of his new neighbours raised an eyebrow at him, but by then most of the people whose feet he had stepped on were distracted by the arrival of the contestants, so Merlin escaped retribution.

He settled in to watch just in time to see none other than Lancelot take the field. Merlin did not recognize his opponent, but he could credibly have been related to the demi-giant that rumour had described along the road. The man was "well-built," that was the term, meaning that whoever had assembled him had done so with a maximum of muscle and sinew, and not very much else. He was only a little larger in frame than Arthur, but gave the impression of having compromised on sheer volume in exchange for pure force. He put Merlin in mind of a tightly drawn bow, containing the potential for far greater motion and violence than could be contained within its dimensions alone.

And he was fast, Merlin discovered when the fighters began to move. He almost had to blink himself into an altered magical state to follow what was happening. It wasn't that the moves themselves were unfamiliar: Arthur had made Merlin run through so many endless routines of block, parry, counter-attack that he could recognize all the individual elements. It was just that, when it came to actual combat, the whole process sped up so there was no time to _think_ about individual attacks and counter-attacks. All you could do was try to keep the sharp, pointy bits of the other person's weapon away from the soft, squishy bits of yourself. At least, that was combat as Merlin understood it. The contest he was watching seemed to be occurring on a whole new level of finesse.

He watched Lancelot shift a mere eighth of an inch to the left to avoid the deadly arc of his opponent's blade. Barely an instant later, Lancelot was bringing his own sword up on the other side to catch the knight's briefly exposed flank.

A cheer broke from Merlin's lips involuntarily as Lancelot's opponent stumbled and lost his poise while he tried to protect his side from further danger. He held onto his ribs almost as though they were bleeding, which Merlin couldn't understand. Surely so slight a blow couldn't have cut through his chainmail already?

The knight extended a hand towards Lancelot as if asking for a moment to recover. Lancelot backed off warily at the gesture — not a moment too soon, as the knight used the movement of one arm as a cover for the other to strike an under-handed blow.

"You bastard!" Merlin exclaimed, then coughed to cover it, though he needn't have bothered. Plenty of the other people watching were murmuring their discontent over the move, and a low cheer broke out as Lancelot danced safely out of range.

They traded more feints than blows, the knight wearing Lancelot down until he blocked an attack that did not come, and the real one that followed knocked him off his feet. A collective gasp went up from the crow, but Merlin found himself grinning: he'd seen this move before.

The knight sauntered over, his grip on his sword relaxed, to crow over his success. Lancelot waited until the other man was almost directly above him, and then he sprang. He knocked the knight off his feet, broke his grip completely, disarmed him, and reversed their positions in an instant, this time with his sword at his opponent's throat.

The knight held up his hands in surrender, and Lancelot allowed him up.

Now see, thought Merlin, if you were a knight of Camelot, you'd have seen that move coming, because Arthur has been pulling that trick on every recruit he's trained since Lancelot.

Out loud he cheered and even attempted a two-handed whistle, which came out as more of a squawk. Then he was climbing over the fence and racing to catch up with Lancelot as he quitted the field.

"Merlin!" Lancelot exclaimed when he spotted him, a pleased smile on his face. "I thought I heard your voice in the crowd, but I couldn't be sure."

"You, my friend, are brilliant," said Merlin, as they made their way through a crowd of curious courtiers and toward the castle gates. "That thing you did with your sword, when you sort of — _swoosh!_ — you have to show some of the other knights how to do that, they'll love it."

"How are things at Camelot?" Lancelot asked. "Is everyone well? Arthur, and Guinevere, and yourself?"

"Er..." said Merlin, the reasons for his journey pushing themselves back to the forefront of his mind, "Actually, that's a bit complicated. No, no, don't worry, everyone's fine, only... could we have a word in private?"

Lancelot excused himself and led Merlin through the winding corridors of the keep to a small, spartan room in one of the turrets.

"This is where you've been staying, then?" asked Merlin, looking around at the bare stone walls. That must get a bit chilly in the winter. The bed in its simplicity reminded him of his old one in Gaius' rooms, although here there was none of the mess he had been used to. "It's... nice. Cosy."

"What couldn't you tell me before?" Lancelot asked. "Is everyone well? Is — are the King and Queen well?"

"No, everyone's fine," said Merlin, "There's been a problem with politics, that's all. Nothing to worry about, really, only someone's sort of... accused you and Gwen of adultery."

Lancelot went white then red with astonishing rapidity.

"Who says — how could anyone—" Lancelot spluttered. Merlin wasn't sure if he was angry or embarrassed or both.

"Nobody important," Merlin assured him. "It's just some knight from Northumbria who no one's ever heard of, only he's trying to cause trouble, so it seems worse than it is. I thought — well, Gwen and I both thought, really — that if you came back and explained..." Merlin trailed off at the increasingly stormy cast of Lancelot's brows.

"Let him face me in honourable combat and I will make him regret the day he ever profaned her name," Lancelot said.

"Funny you should mention that..." said Merlin. "Because if you don't, Arthur will, and we were thinking... it's just a slight possibility..." He tried to think of a way to phrase it that wouldn't sound disloyal, but gave up: "We think there's a chance Arthur might get himself killed being a brave idiot."

Lancelot laughed. "There's always a chance of that happening in any case. There's only one problem, though. I've given my word to King Pelles that I will fight another day in this tournament. There is a matter of honour at stake here, as well."

Merlin frowned. "Hang on, how many ladies could you possibly have besmirched in the last week?"

Lancelot went in detail into the story of how he had come to be at Corbin.

"I don't know how it happened," Lancelot said, sitting heavily on the bed. "All I wanted was to help. The next thing I knew, her father had me kidnapped — or no, that was her brothers — but now he's talking about marrying us off and having grandchildren. I don't think I'm ready for grandchildren yet, Merlin." He waved his sword in a gesture of helplessness, which Merlin felt very uncomfortable about happening so close to his kidneys.

Merlin took the sword away before it could do any irreparable damage and set it aside on the next convenient surface. Then he sat down beside Lancelot and patted him consolingly on the back.

"You're a handsome man," Merlin said, "I'm sure that sort of thing could happen to anyone."

"Her brothers keep threatening to kill me, too," said Lancelot in bewilderment. "Except her youngest brother, who seems really pleased that I've beaten him. Her oldest brother told me after today's contest that he was expecting my run of good luck to end tomorrow before something else did. I don't even know what that _means_. There's something wrong with this family."

"All the more reason to come back to Camelot with me," Merlin urged him. "Then you'll only have to worry about facing one person who _might_ try to kill you, and I can promise you with reasonable certainty that no one will try to make you get married."

Unless, of course, a woman came along who just happened to be perfect for him, and if Gwen and Lancelot could agree that old feelings were best let go. Merlin believed in looking to the future. It was probably the result of one too many conversations with the Great Dragon.

"I can't just leave like that," Lancelot said, "not now I've agreed to go through with this. It wouldn't be right."

"How much longer were you planning to stay, exactly?" Merlin asked a little nervously. "Only, the trial by combat is, well, not to put too fine a point on it, tomorrow..."

Lancelot looked alarmed. "How long has this been going on?"

"Er, it's a relatively recent development. Only, Arthur got a bit zealous about seeing justice done personally once Gwen was involved. You know." Merlin shrugged. "So we have about... a day, give or take, to get you back to Camelot, or Arthur will go charging in on his own. I can speed things up a little along the road, you know —" He waved his hand around a bit to indicate "magical, wooOOooOOoo..." "— but it still takes time to travel, we should really leave, well, now, if you want to get there in time."

Merlin stood abruptly, doing his best to look eager rather than impatient.

Lancelot sat still, looking pole-axed. "I don't know, Merlin. I can't just leave. These people — well, Lady Elaine, needs my help. I'm not sure if she wants it or even if it's the right kind of help. But I don't think I could leave her here now anymore than I could have ridden past in the forest."

"Right," said Merlin, fighting back disappointment. "Of course, if these people are that important to you — I'll just have to go back on my own and find some other way of making sure Arthur doesn't get himself killed. Don't worry, I'm good at that bit, I'm sure I'll think of something."

Lancelot's expression was agonized. He stood, waveringly."Yet if Guinevere and Arthur need my help, I cannot refuse," he said slowly.

Merlin took a deep breath. "Have you thought about, maybe, asking the Lady Elaine about it? You said she didn't seem to want your help in the first place, maybe she wouldn't mind if you left."

"Are you sure it's any of my business?" asked a faint but distinctly peevish voice on the other side of the door. "You wouldn't want to complicate things by asking someone with no personal stake in the matter, would you?"

Lancelot's head whipped around at the voice and Merlin thought he caught a moment of terror in his eyes.

"Lady Elaine, is that you?" Lancelot asked. "Have you been there long?"

The door opened.

"If you mean long enough to know you're a fool, then yes, but I hardly needed to listen at doors to find that out. I was coming to see you about this whole tournament thing anyway. There's one option I think you've overlooked."

Merlin stared at the person in the door, looked back at Lancelot, and then back at the figure in the door. "Er..." he said. "You don't always look like that, do you?"

"Of course not," said Elaine sharply.

"She doesn't," Lancelot said. "I would have mentioned that."

* * *

Dame Brusen had not been told, when she accepted responsibility for the youngest of Pelles' children, that it would take a miracle, or maybe a strong dose of magic, to keep the girl under any kind of control. It was therefore fortunate for all concerned that Dame Brusen happened to possess magical talents in abundance, and that these were the least of her gifts.

She had raised a brood of ten and seen them all, remarkably, grow to adulthood despite the normal sort of events that threated the survival of children born within Camelot's bounds. They had suffered the usual illnesses, accidents, and of course rampages by tyrants determined to wipe out anyone of any age with magical abilities, but she had kept them safe somehow through it all. She had birthed them, nursed them, protected them, guided them, smuggled them out of hostile territories, and finally washed her hands of them when they started having children of their own, declaring that she had done quite enough of _that_ for one lifetime, thank you very much.

A few weeks after she effected a quiet retirement to a neighbouring kingdom, Dame Brusen's friend Helena, in whose household Brusen had meant to live out the rest of her life in peace and relative solitude, had died, leaving a baby daughter in desperate need of a nursemaid.

The little girl had been discontented with the world from the start, kicking and screaming when she was picked up or put down, wailing when she was left on her own, and shrieking when she was cossetted. Her father was sunk in his own grief; her brothers, confused and upset without understanding, were left to run rampant while he recovered; and little Elaine was left to Dame Brusen's care because she was the only one with enough tenderness left over after grief to care for the girl.

It could have been the passage of time obscuring her memories, but Dame Brusen would have sworn that little Elaine gave her more trouble than all of her own children had done, put together.

Elaine decided to walk before she had got the hang of crawling, but her determination and stubbornness kept her levering herself up, clutching onto the furniture and making forays against the opposite side of the room. More than once Dame Brusen returned to her charge's side to find that the girl had clambered out of her crib, across the floor, and was making the acquaintance of the window ledge or tottering toward the top of a staircase, though Brusen could have sworn she'd shut the door behind her when she left. It reached the point where Dame Brusen started tying magical charms to Elaine's crib, and later to the girl's clothes, to alert her to any sudden bids for freedom.

It only got worse when Elaine learned to walk properly and subsequently discovered the existence of her brothers. They hadn't taken a great deal of interest in their baby sister at first, not once they had visited the strange wrinkly creature and discovered it wasn't good for much beyond blowing spit-bubbles and kicking its chubby little legs furiously. As entertainment went, there were better, more mobile sources to be found in the servants and the livestock around the castle, and so the boys ran after them instead. Elaine, possibly remembering and resenting this in some far-off part of her infant brain, seized upon every chance she could find to hunt them down, as soon as she worked out how to use her legs. If her brothers were bewildered at first by the small red ball of screaming, flailing limbs that appeared with no warning to chase them around the castle, they soon learned to be wary of it.

Some of the girl's menace had since been restrained through long and weary hours of tutelage in the behaviour befitting a lady. Her blossoming figure as she grew older, the adornments of her station, and the veneer of respect for the bounds of propriety, which Brusen finally managed to instill, concealed much of that discontented child from the common view. There was never any doubt, however, in Dame Brusen's mind, that the same wailing, shrieking bundle of rage was still there, just waiting for the opportunity to escape.

Brusen had not been at all surprised when she learned of Elaine's flight. It seemed the natural and inevitable result of the girl's never-ending bid to defy all control.

Dame Brusen had tried to tell herself that whatever Elaine encountered roaming around the woods would probably have better reason to fear her than she could have to fear it. Brusen still had an instinct, though, born of too many frights about second-storey windows, that would not let her wash her hands of her feckless charge.

When Elaine was a very young child, just beginning to get into places where she ought not to be, Brusen had sewn tiny labels of enchanted cloth into the seams of all her clothes, the better to track her down before the screaming started. After that it had simply been easier to continue the habit as the girl grew out of each successive garment.

Elaine had thought Dame Brusen had the gift of the third eye that allowed her to find Elaine instantly wherever she went. Brusen had never troubled to correct her.

And so when Elaine vanished one night from Castle Corbin, it was Dame Brusen who knew which road the girl had taken, and after one agonizing night and morning of waiting for her to return, told the King where to search for his missing daughter.

She did not regret the decision now, however much Elaine might chafe with silent resentment over her interference. It was better than waking up again in the middle of the night to find her missing. So Brusen sat with her, and watched her, and gave her extra lessons to learn to give her something to fret about, and waited for the next eruption.

It came after the second match of the tournament, when Elaine returned to her chambers in a fury.

"—is so fond of Lancelot, he should just adopt him!" she was saying, paying Brusen no mind as she stormed around. "Anyone could have seen what William was doing, they don't need to form a parade in his honour, I don't see why he should be allowed to get away with it. Just — just some _nobody_ of a swordsman, he could be anyone under there, it's not like anyone even _knows_ him, I don't see why—"

Elaine stopped short in the middle of her rant and came to stare at Dame Brusen. There was a particular gleam in her eye that Elaine had always used to get as a child when she was planning mischief. She had that look again now.

"Father told me once you used to dabble in the magical arts," Elaine said. "Is that true? Can you — can you conjure things and... make things change shape, and other sorts of enchantments?"

Elaine's hands were gripping each other so tightly as she asked that the individual knuckles stood out sharp and white beneath her skin. Dame Brusen sighed.

"I have a little art," she said. "What sort of enchantments did you have in mind?"

* * *

Gregory was not worried, not exactly. Just because Lancelot had pulled out a few unexpected moves against his brothers, that was no reason to believe that he would do the same against Gregory. Everything was still going according to plan, he told himself firmly, and put his helmet on backwards. He cursed, removed it, squashing his nose painfully in the process, and went down to the tournament grounds.

There was no reason why Gregory shouldn't win today, he told himself as he took the field. He was a better swordsman than his brothers, everyone knew that. He would take back his grandfather's sword from this interloper; his father would forget all this silly business about marrying Elaine off; and Gregory would once again be the unquestioned champion of Carbonek.

It was a good plan. It had nice, clear steps, and a happy ending for Gregory. All he had to do was follow the plan and not let anything unexpected interfere... like that unorthodox move Lancelot had pulled out against William yesterday.

It wasn't as if the man _looked_ all that intimidating, Gregory thought, as Lancelot joined him on the field. He wasn't even walking confidently. His gait was awkward and he kept re-adjusting his armour as though it didn't fit quite right. On every other step he shook out his arms to resettle the hauberk and then rolled his shoulders back and forth to loosen them. He looked like he might trip over his own feet given half a chance. _This_ was the man who had beaten his brothers? _Ha!_

Lancelot returned Gregory's salute and then shoved his helmet on hurriedly. Then he backed off as far as he could from Gregory without actually leaving the field, extended his sword, and stood at the ready. Gregory thought the sword was trembling slightly.

Gregory felt his confidence puff up despite his best intentions. Even after his previous victories, Lancelot must recognize him, Gregory, as the most daunting challenge. Gregory grinned under the cover of his helmet. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Lancelot tripped almost immediately as they began circling each other, losing his footing and making an ungainly recovery. Gregory, refusing to be lured in too far by any such obviously false opening, tested Lancelot's reactions with a series of cuts and thrusts that left the other man stumbling back unsteadily.

Gregory pressed the advantage as much as he dared, putting Lancelot on the defensive and looking for an opening, but Lancelot practically hid behind his shield, giving Gregory nothing to work with. When Gregory tired of raining blows on an unresponsive opponent, he dropped his own guard a little, deliberately, expecting Lancelot to seize on the temporary hole in his defense, but still the man made no attempt to counter-attack.

Frustrated and annoyed, Gregory aimed a less than skillful blow at Lancelot's head, but it almost got through. Lancelot only got his own sword up at the last second to block it.

Their swords clanged noisily, to great applause from the crowd, but it was more a show of brute force than skill. Gregory was bewildered. What was Lancelot playing at?

"Would you prefer to surrender now and save us both the trouble?" Gregory asked. "Or are you at least going to pretend you know how to use that thing?"

Lancelot didn't reply, but his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword and he moved back into position, couched to strike. Then he sprang forward at last in attack.

There was no time now to think; Gregory was parrying blows and counter-blows at every turn. Lancelot landed a final crashing strike against his sword and then, as he stepped back briefly, Gregory could at last hear the sounds of his own panting breaths over the clash of arms.

There was, however, something familiar about the technique, Gregory thought during another round of fast, furious hits. The sequence was almost formal in its correctness, none of the instinctual, free-flowing movement Lancelot had shown in the previous fights. It was as if he were moving — yes, almost as if he were moving through exercises, but so quickly that the individual parts blended and blurred together.

It was like being back in swordsmanship lessons, Gregory thought resentfully, the next time he had a moment to think. What was the point of it? If Lancelot were simply trying to wear him down, he could at least have done it in a less tedious way.

Gregory took a chance and charged, hoping to break up the pattern, but Lancelot simply danced aside and carried on with the same sequence of moves. This was ridiculous.

"Haven't you got any ideas of your own left?" he asked after he had caught another methodical round of alternating high and low blows on his shield. "At this rate we might as well go to my father's library and _read_ about sword fighting."

"Getting bored, are you?" Lancelot replied. "Want something new to think about?"

"If it wouldn't be too much of a bother for you," Gregory said haughtily. "I wouldn't want you to strain your intellect."

"Oh, it isn't me who'll feel the strain," Lancelot said, and then he was darting forward with a clumsy blow that Gregory diverted with ease.

As he parried Lancelot's blade, however, Lancelot stepped in even closer, defying all logic of self-preservation by getting so close to Gregory's own sword, and slammed his elbow into the underside of Gregory's chin. Gregory's head snapped back painfully and he swung out recklessly, only to find Lancelot gone. His own momentum left him unsteady, stumbling, and Lancelot, who had somehow got around to his back, jammed the hilt of his sword between Gregory's shoulders.

Gregory stumbled and cursed angrily. He tried to come about to face Lancelot again, but again the man was not where he expected him. Lancelot had ducked around to his left side and, as Gregory found his bearings again, slammed a heavy boot down on top of Gregory's foot.

"Gah!" Gregory shouted. "What the —"

Then there was a hand twisting his sword arm — no, _two_ hands. Lancelot had apparently dropped his own sword to get a grip on Gregory's right arm and then actually _punched his elbow_ to weaken his grip. Gregory didn't know what to think anymore. His arm went numb and he could feel his fingers loosening around the hilt of his sword no matter how sternly he commanded them to hold on.

Lancelot knocked his sword out of his hand at last, but instead of going in for the kill or knocking him down, he grabbed Gregory's hand and twisted it up and around to his back, forcing Gregory to his knees.

"What do you say?" Lancelot growled. His voice sounded strange, although that could just have been the distortion from his helmet. It was funny what wrapping your head in metal could do to sounds.

"Er... I yield?" Gregory tried. This was not going at all to plan. He was pretty sure that when you were defeated in knightly combat you were still supposed to end up in a more dignified position. His shoulder was beginning to cramp and there were uncomfortable tingles running up and down the length of his forearm.

"Wrong. Try again," Lancelot said. He twisted a little harder. Gregory's arm was protected by his pauldron from being wrenched at too extreme an angle, but it still chafed and stung like anything.

"I surrender?" Gregory flailed around looking for other combinations of the words. "I acknowledge your superior combat skills? You can keep the sword?"

Lancelot leaned in close to his ear so their helmets actually bumped into each other.

"I believe the word you're looking for," Lancelot whispered, "is 'Uncle'."

"Uncle?" said Gregory, and then at another insistent tug on his arm, repeated it more loudly, "Uncle! Uncle!"

The pressure on his arm was finally released and he staggered to his feet, rubbing at his shoulder tenderly to make sure nothing was damaged. Lancelot was standing nonchalantly with both of their swords in hand.

"How was that? Not too boring, I hope?" Lancelot sneered.

"All right, all right, you've made your point. Well fought," Gregory acknowledged bitterly. He wondered if the court physician was going to have to put his arm in a sling after the wrenching it had got. If the physician didn't, Gregory might choose to anyway.

Gregory removed his helmet awkwardly with his one good arm and stuck it under the other so he could offer Lancelot his hand to shake. Lancelot just stared down at the outstretched hand, making no move to take off his own helmet.

"If you're not going to leave me any dignity on the field you could at least observe the proper forms," Gregory hissed at him.

"Erm," said Lancelot. "I don't think I should."

"Why not?" Gregory demanded. "Don't want to cheapen your reputation showing a bit of courtesy at the end of a fight? I thought you liked fancy speeches and grand gestures."

"It's not that," Lancelot said and, yes, there was definitely something off about his voice. It kept cracking and going higher than it ought. "I think it's worn off."

"What's worn off?" asked Gregory suspiciously. "Here, are you going to shake my hand or not?"

"Oh, right," said Lancelot in a very high-pitched voice. He grabbed Gregory's hand, gave it a perfunctory shake, and dashed off the field, giving the King an equally brief salute as he passed the stands.

The crowd murmured with some confusion, craning their necks after the departing champion. Gregory took advantage of the general distraction to salute his father as best he could without a sword, and get away quietly while he could. It was all very well to stick around and bask in the attention after a victory; there was no rule that said he had to wait around in case the crowd decided to start booing or throwing rotten produce.

* * *

Elaine waited until she was out of sight of the tournament grounds to break into a run. She had felt the shift beginning to happen partway through the match, which had been very distracting. There was nothing quite like the feel of your skin shifting around and rearranging itself to take your mind off the person swinging a sword at you.

Still, Dame Brusen's magic had done everything she had asked; no one had suspected a difference in "Lancelot" when he appeared for the third day of combat. One or two people might think the hurried way he had left was _odd_ , and there would no doubt be some questions when no one could find him for the celebrations, but it had been worth it. The feel of competing out there, the crowds, the heady rush of excitement when she realized that Gregory wouldn't be holding back this time because she was a _girl_ , it was like nothing she'd felt before and like everything she'd wanted.

There was no way that she was staying now, not now that she _knew_ she'd been right. Let them assume she'd run away with Lancelot the minute the fight was over. Let Gregory try to drag her back her again, after the beating she had given him today. Let Dame Brusen pitch a fit if she liked. If she wanted to be useful she could come along, otherwise Elaine would just make do on her own.

"Come on," she said to Dame Brusen as she reached her own rooms. If the woman was alarmed by a fully armoured figure bursting in upon her, she didn't show it. "We've got some packing to do," said Elaine, "unless you'd rather stay here, but you'd better not tell my father where I'm going if you do, or we'll just have to go through this all over again."

"Am I to understand that the spell was successful?" Dame Brusen asked. She put down her sewing calmly and folded her hands in her lap.

"What? Oh, that, yes," said Elaine, pulling off the helmet so she could see what she was doing a little better. Taking off the gauntlets helped too. It was hard to sort through flimsy regal clothing when your hands were covered in metal. Someone should invent a sensible halfway point between the two. Clothes that stopped you handling anything smaller than, say, a mace, were hardly any more practical than ones that fell apart at the suggestion of anything more menacing than embroidery.

"And the tournament?" Dame Brusen prompted. Why she harped on at obvious points, Elaine could never understand.

"I think I made Greg cry," she said, looking around for the saddle bag she had packed for her last flight. She knew they'd taken away its contents, but surely they wouldn't have hidden the bag itself?

Ah, there it was under the bed. Goodness knew how it had got there. Elaine scrambled down and fished it out with the tip of her sword, her arm being too short to reach.

"He'll go off to lick his wounds — or more likely have someone else lick them for him — wait, no, euch, what a thought," Elaine said with a shudder. "And then in about an hour, someone is going to come fetch me for dinner and try to announce my engagement to Lancelot, which is going to be tricky, since he left hours ago. Are you coming or not?" she demanded, gripping a saddle-bag stuffed with whatever she had managed to shove in. A shawl and a stray shoe tumbled out as she did up the fastenings.

Dame Brusen still hadn't moved. "I suppose you are planning to follow this man to Camelot, then?"

"Er..." said Elaine. "Right, of course, that's where I'm going. We're going, if you come too. Because I'm... desperately in love with Lancelot and I have to follow him. And my father or anyone else has no business stopping me, because he's already approved of the match. Sort of. If I can catch up with him. Are you coming, then?" she repeated, hopping on one foot at the door, trying to sling the saddle bag over her shoulder.

Dame Brusen took a long look at her charge, still fully dressed in armour, with a helmet and a sword dangling from one hand and a saddle bag from another, and an anxious, hopeful look on her face that she probably didn't even realize was there, and thought, well, why not? If the girl was that determined to pick a fight with the world, wouldn't it be a good idea if she at least had someone along who could watch her back? None of Brusen's own children had ever given her this much trouble, it was true, but perhaps that was simply because none of them had ever needed quite as much help.

Brusen sighed. It would have been nice to be in charge of her own life for a while, just once, but some things were not to be.

"You're not going like that," she said and, before Elaine could open her mouth to protest, she pointed emphatically at a chair. "Change out of those ridiculous things, put on a proper travelling cloak and something I won't be ashamed to have you seen in. If anyone comes looking for you, I'll tell them you've got a headache and are having a lie-down. We'll leave at dusk after a proper meal, and you're going to pack your things so they don't leave a trail of breadcrumbs for your brothers to follow all the way to Camelot.

"And then," she added sternly, "you are going to write your father a decent letter about where you have gone with this Lancelot fellow, so he doesn't worry, and you are going to promise to write him every other week from now on, and you are going to do it, too. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few preparations to attend to, so just you sit tight and let me handle things."

Dame Brusen sailed out of the room, leaving Elaine sitting quietly and with a minimal amount of fidgeting in her room. She locked the door behind her with a whisper of magic just for good measure.

"Goodness, running off without any consideration," she muttered to herself as she headed for the castle kitchens to fetch provisions for the journey. "If she doesn't starve to death or run herself through with that silly sword, it'll be a miracle."

* * *

The next morning, King Pelles found a short note waiting for him with his breakfast:

 _"Dear Father — Gone to Camelot after Lancelot. You can keep the grail, give it to William if you like, I'm taking the sword. love, Elaine. P.S. Will write on arrival."_

He chuckled quietly to himself and said to Chrétien, who was scribbling away in a corner while Pelles ate, "And so Elaine goes to follow her destiny at Camelot. Well, if they accept commoners as knights there, perhaps a king's daughter won't be so much of a surprise. What do you think of that, eh?"

Chrétien, struggling over a metaphor for the way bold Sir Lancelot's sword had flashed as he forced his enemy to his knees, barely took notice of the comment more than to say, "Yes, sire" and consider that it might be quite good if, after the noble knight had returned home in victory, there were a bit of a love story to round things out.

The story would be complicated by Sir Lancelot's devotion to the Queen, of course, but what was a romance without some conflict, after all? Or perhaps the Queen _was_ his lady love, parted from him by the cruel dictates of custom. Yes, a love triangle. That would do quite nicely. He wrote away happily while Pelles finished his breakfast.

* * *

Merlin was absolutely certain about where he had left the horse. He had counted the number of trees and noted the bend in the road and even left a mark on the tree the horse was tied up to. None of which explained why he couldn't find it.

"You're sure it was here?" Lancelot called out from the edge of the road. Merlin had sworn he didn't need any help finding his horse.

"It's got to be here somewhere!" Merlin called back. "I know where I left her, it's just that she was a bit... uh, invisible at the time."

" _Ah_ ," said Lancelot. "I don't suppose there's a counter — a way to reverse it, is there?" he asked hopefully.

"Quite possibly so. In fact, almost definitely, I'd say," said Merlin, emerging somewhat dishevelled and still horseless from the undergrowth. "Unfortunately, I have no idea what it is."

Lancelot frowned. "Couldn't you guess?" he asked.

"Not as such, no," said Merlin. "Not unless you want to risk other accidental results, like half the forest disappearing, or a herd of befuddled horses from an alternate dimension appearing along the way. Best not to try."

"What about a spell for finding things, then?" Lancelot asked him.

"I've tried that," Merlin said, feeling aggrieved. After all, he was the sorcerer here. That was the sort of thing he would, obviously, have thought of doing first. "On the other hand, maybe I'll try doing it from a little higher up, er, see if that helps get things into... focus."

At the very least, it might help him remember where he'd left the darn thing.

The horse in question, who had just settled down for a nice afternoon nap after a constructive morning of nibbling on plants around the base of tree, heard their voices and pricked up her ears. They were nowhere nearby, but it wasn't as if she could tell them that. Besides, she hadn't quite made up her mind about whether to alert them to her presence at all.

It had begun to dawn on her that there were some distinct advantages to being an invisible horse. It had confused the wolf that had stalked past earlier that day, so close that it made her quiver with terror at the thought of being unable to escape from its jaws. The wolf had sniffed her out, coming so close to her hooves that she might have kicked back and fetched it a blow squarely on the nose Instead she had stood perfectly still, and the predator, confused by the strong scent with no apparent source, had eventually moved on, leaving her trembling in its wake.

She had started chewing on the rope that tied her to the tree, after that. It wasn't the sort of experience one wanted to stand around waiting for a repeat of. If she _could_ get loose, though, this whole not-being-there-to-see thing could work out to her benefit. It might get a little awkward, running into other horses, but that was something to work out later. And, of course, no one could try to ride you if they couldn't find you in the first place.

She was still trying to decide her views on humans who had you ride around all day, traipsing through strange, glowy things, and then left you tied up at the mercy of wolves who might not be particular about biting things they couldn't see, when there was a loud crash and her human came tumbling out of some low-hanging branches.

"Oof," said Merlin, hanging suspended in mid-air a few feet off the ground. "Found it!" he hollered.

Then again, thought the horse, life had never been fair, and if you forgot that you were likely to have heavy humans land on you from above with no warning. She snorted and shook out her mane. Halfway through the motion, it became visible. It was a comforting sight, along with her reappearing hooves and, if she turned her head just far enough, the old, familiar flick of her tail.

"Right then," said the human, clambering up on her back. "Time to go home."

There probably wouldn't have been much point in asking whether they were going the normal, sensible way, or if any shimmering, sparkly patches of air were going to be involved.

* * *

"Does Arthur know that you're travelling by magic?" Lancelot asked, after they emerged a little unsteadily from another glowing portal. This time Merlin was still on horseback, but Ambulatrix had chosen to stay behind and left Lancelot rather literally in the lurch.

"Erm," said Merlin.

"So that's a no, then?" Lancelot asked. "What will they think of my arriving so quickly?"

"That you were already on your way and I met you in the road?" Merlin tried. "Honestly, everyone will just be so glad to see you, I don't think they'll care how you got there."

"And what will they think of me when they learn that I snuck out of Castle Corbin and allowed a lady I was meant to be defending take my place?" he asked a little bitterly.

Merlin laid a comforting hand on his arm. "If they'd met Elaine, they'd understand. Let's see if we can go get your horse back."

Lancelot gave a desultory nod and Merlin headed back through the temporary rift in space-time to convince another horse of the exciting possibilities of supernatural means of travel.


	9. Chapter 9

Gwen had never thought of pacing as something that could be catching, but she was beginning to wonder if it might be. Arthur had calmed at last, the way he always did the night before combat. It was Gwen now who was growing flustered and anxious, impatient for the dawn and dreading it at the same time.

It didn't matter how many times she told herself that it was ridiculous to expect Merlin back already; he had only left yesterday. She still came around every corner of the castle hoping that she would run into him. After all, he was, well, he was a sorcerer, wasn't he? He did all sorts of improbable things. Was it that much more unreasonable to expect him to reach Carbonek and be back in the blink of an eye?

She knew she was probably being silly. It couldn't really work like that, could it? Only she _was_ going to be put on trial tomorrow. Even if it was indirectly, even if all the contest came down to was some kind of political manoeuvring, she couldn't help thinking that, with Merlin gone, and Elyan travelling, that if Arthur... if Arthur were even _injured_ tomorrow, she would have no one left in the court to rely on. It was a sobering thought.

Arthur had sworn that he would never let her come to harm, but what if it weren't up to Arthur? If he fell in combat, would his knights still feel the same way about supporting a woman who had brought their King to such an end? Could she rely on someone like Gwaine, after everything else that had happened, to defend her if Arthur was gone, and no help came from Carbonek in time?

She had tried to represent some of this to Arthur, mainly in terms of the danger to the kingdom if he fell, but he was determined. A king could not be worthy to rule if he balked at defending what he believed in. Gwen, perhaps unworthily, felt that it might be more useful to have a king who was still alive at the end of the day.

If Arthur was determined to fight Sir Rothby, and if Sir Rothby was determined to try to kill him, perhaps there _was_ still one person at Camelot to whom she could appeal for reason. Not that she had much hope of success, but Gwen felt the overwhelming need to do _something_ other than pace in circles around the castle all night.

Sir Rothby had been under heavy guard since making his accusation, but his mother, Lady Lavinia, was still free to come and go as she pleased. In any case, the castle guards were hardly going to stop the Queen of Camelot from visiting whomever she wished.

Gwen knocked quietly on Lady Lavinia's door, so quietly in fact that she waited for a minute, uncertain whether she had been heard at all, before a faint voice called out, "Enter."

Lady Lavinia was sitting up in bed, the blankets drawn up nearly to her chin. Gwen shut the door and came to her side, feeling suddenly nervous for no reason that she could place.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you were going to bed, I didn't think of the hour," Gwen said. It was only early evening, but perhaps for the older lady it was late already.

"It's no trouble, my dear," Lady Lavinia said. "Was there something you wanted?"

Gwen came a little nearer and trod on something hard, round and silver, that rolled away under the bed. Lady Lavinia's eyes flashed at the movement, as Gwen stumbled and righted herself with a hand on the blankets.

"I'm sorry," Gwen repeated and then, since she was there anyway and might as well continue, sat down on the foot of the bed. "I wanted to talk to you. It's about your son, Sir Rothby. I suppose you know about his — you know what's been going on?"

"I've heard something about it," said Lady Lavinia. "Of course I haven't been able to see him since then, which is so upsetting to a mother's feelings. I don't understand what's been happening."

"I'm afraid he's got into a bit of trouble," said Gwen, trying to sound as sympathetic about it as she could. "He's said some things that — well, they aren't true, but now he and the King are both so determined to prove they're right and the other's wrong that they're going to fight each other about it tomorrow. And I'm very much afraid that one of them may be — that someone may get badly hurt."

"How terrible," said Lady Lavinia. "But of course these things will happen. Rothby was always a little mischievous as a boy. I'm sure it'll be all right in the end."

"Wouldn't it be better if they didn't fight at all, though, don't you think?" Gwen asked. "I don't know if you could somehow convince your son — if you could convince him that it was a bad idea —" but Lady Lavinia was already shaking her head.

"I'm afraid he's terribly stubborn. I dare say if I tried to talk him out of it he'd only be more determined to go through with it. You know what these young men are like," Lady Lavinia said conspiratorially.

"But what if —" Gwen tried. "Do you remember, a few days ago, when we were sitting together? It was... it was after Sir Gwaine arrived, you met him at his knighting ceremony? If you could just tell your son — or, no, better yet, your cousin, the Earl. If you could just tell him about how we sat together and talked that day, it could clear up the confusion of what my husband and your son are arguing about. And then the Earl could put a stop to this foolishness."

Lady Lavinia's fingers emerged over the top of the bed clothes and she appeared to be counting something out in her head. At last she reached a conclusion and sighed sadly.

"No, I'm so sorry my dear," said Lady Lavinia, "I think you must have the day wrong. It was the day before that when you and I were having such a lovely chat about lace patterns. Yes, I'm afraid I simply couldn't lie about such a thing, even though I'm sure this is terribly important to you. But then, if you didn't want people to say such things about your indiscretions, you really should have been more careful not to be seen, shouldn't you?"

She said it in a syrupy, sympathetic voice, and a hand snaked out from under the covers to rest consolingly on Gwen's own. Gwen snatched her hand back from the touch, as if bitten. She didn't believe the tone of sympathy. There was something about the words that struck too false a note.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," she said, getting up to leave. "I should have seen it was impossible. Don't let me trouble you any further."

"Good night, Guinevere," Lady Lavinia called out after her.

As Gwen closed the door behind her, she felt the prickings of tears at the corner of her eyes. It was just frustration. Hot, angry frustration, with herself as much as anything, for believing that it would make a difference. If the woman's son was willing to accuse Gwen of adultery, why should she have believed his mother would be any better?

There had been something strange, though, just at the end, when Lady Lavinia had reached out to take her hand. It stuck in Gwen's mind through her self-remonstration over what a mistake this visit had been. Already made suspicious by Lady Lavinia's pretense of sympathy, Gwen's thoughts ran feverishly over everything she had seen during their short interview before coming to rest on Lady Lavinia's hand.

It had been a sleeve. Not the sleeve of a nightdress, but of a fine gown.

Lady Lavinia had been still dressed under the bed clothes, Gwen was sure of it, and she had kept all but her head carefully hidden beneath the blankets so that Gwen would not see it. Her hair had not looked right, either, now Gwen knew what to look for in her memories. It had still been bound up, not let out and mussed by lying in bed. Gwen must have noticed the difference without being fully aware of it.

That pause before Lady Lavinia answered the knock at her door, then, had not been a pause to wake or to sit up in bed. It had been just enough time for her to get _into_ bed, and to arrange the bed clothes so they covered up what she was wearing. She had only forgotten her gown when she moved to touch Gwen's hand in that move of false kindness.

But what reason could there have been to conceal the fact that she was still dressed from Gwen, who had scarcely expected to find her in bed at this hour anyway. Surely she could have feigned tiredness without hiding under the bedclothes.

 _What if there were someone she did not want to know that she had been out of bed?_ Gwen wondered.

It was an odd thought, and might come to nothing, but Gwen decided to walk the long way back to her own rooms, by way of the other guest quarters. It proved a fruitful detour when she reached Sir Rothby's door, set back a little in a niche in the wall, and found the guards posted outside it slumped on the floor in a deep sleep. Their legs had been drawn in so they did not protrude into the corridor and were invisible to the casual passerby.

Gwen shook the shoulder of the nearest one, gently, to wake him, but it had no effect. His head merely lolled further to the side upon his shoulder. Gwen bit her lip, worrying away at the problem.

There had been something else in Lady Lavinia's room that had made her uneasy from the moment she saw it, but what was it? Something about the bed or — no, it had been what was under the bed. When she had stepped on something and Lady Lavinia had looked nervous, or angry, or at any rate not her calm, placid self. What had it been? It was a piece of jewellery, Gwen had thought, a bracelet or a bangle, a heavy, solid one. She tried to remember what it had looked like, if she had got a look at it when she came in.

Gwen's head ached terribly.

Was Sir Rothby even still inside? If he had disabled the guards, he could be anywhere in the castle by now.

She spun around and headed back to the royal chambers at a fast walk, breaking into a run as the quiet desertion of the halls turned her worry into panic. She turned a corner at high speed and ran straight into a cloaked and hooded figure coming the other way.

Gwen would have fallen, but she was caught and held tightly by the shoulders.

"Morgana?" she gasped, looking up into the deep shadows of the hood.

" _Slæp nu_ ," said the shadowy figure, and Gwen slumped suddenly in its arms, her eyelashes fluttering shut as she was drawn into a deep magical sleep.

The last thought Gwen had before the sleep claimed her was that of course it wasn't Morgana. That was Lady Lavinia's face just peeking out from beneath the hood of the cloak. So why had she been so sure?

While the guards outside Sir Rothby's quarters slumbered on, a figure knocked on the door and was admitted, carrying the unconscious body of the queen.

"Can you make her forget?" asked Lady Lavinia, once the queen was laid out on the bed.

"What does she know?" Sir Rothby asked sharply. "Did she discover who we are?"

Lady Lavinia paused for a moment before shaking her head. "No, she merely came across the sleeping guards. I believe she was going to alert the others."

Sir Rothby sighed. "That is simple enough, then. A spell to erase her memory of the last few minutes should be enough."

Lady Lavinia bit her lip and suggested, "Perhaps a little longer than that?" At Sir Rothby's look of inquiry, she added hastily, "In case there was something preceding that which made her seek out your rooms. There's no telling what brought her here. If she wakes and returns again, it will only complicate matters."

Sir Rothby nodded gravely. "It is enough of a risk leaving the guards asleep at their stations. Any more, and the Queen may not be the only one to suspect something amiss."

"Exactly," said Lady Lavinia, with a sigh of relief. "It won't — the spell won't harm her, I suppose? I mean, the effects won't be noticeable?"

"Just a brief lapse in her memory," Sir Rothby assured her. He raised a hand and carefully stroked it across the Queen's temples as he whispered a spell. "There, all gone now. You can return her without being observed?"

"I know this castle like the back of my hand. And the guards will not see me," Lady Lavinia promised. She gathered the still sleeping Queen into her arms with a little effort and headed for the door.

"Aren't you going to wish me luck in the tournament tomorrow?" Sir Rothby asked, just before she left.

"Of course," said Lady Lavinia, and turned around with a wide smile. "Good luck, sister. I'm sure you will be victorious."

She slipped out past the slumbering guards and through the corridors to the Queen's chamber. She walked softly past the door to the King's bedchamber, but there was no sign of movement within. She laid the Queen out upon the couch in her own room, arranged as if she had lain down for a quick nap and fallen into a deep sleep.

Then, looking at the stiff gown that Gwen wore, Lady Lavinia lifted her a little to loose the lacings of the dress. Gwen sank back onto the couch with a little sigh. There was a shawl lying on a chair that Lady Lavinia brought over and spread across Gwen's feet.

"I'm sorry, Gwen," said Lady Lavinia gently. "Really, I am. I suppose you won't believe it, but I never wanted you to get mixed up in all this."

She brushed aside a curl that had fallen across Gwen's cheek.

"Why did it have to be _Arthur_ though?" she asked the sleeping Queen. "You could have fallen in love with Lancelot, and run away with your knight errant, and then it would just have been some princess worrying about losing her position at court. Wouldn't that have been better?"

Lady Lavinia straightened up and drew her hood closer around her face before leaving.

"It's for the best, Gwen. You'll understand that someday, perhaps."

With that, she left.

When Gwen woke up next, it was bright morning. Sunlight and bird song streamed in through the open windows of her room. She still had a headache. Still, from last night, when she had gone to see Lady Lavinia and — of course, the woman was sorry, but she couldn't help. Had there been anything else?

Gwen puzzled over the memory. There was a nagging thought that she kept trying to reach, but it continually evaded her. No, she must just have been tired. She had come back to bed and fallen asleep almost before her head had hit the pillow, that was all. And there were so many other things to be worried about today, with the fate of Camelot resting on the outcome of a single trial by combat. Anything else would just have to wait.

* * *

Guinevere's hair was tousled by sleep and she winced against the morning light when Arthur touched her cheek to wake her. Even groggy and half-asleep, she was the most lovely thing he had ever seen.

Arthur leaned in and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. "Sleep well?" he asked.

"Mmmm..." said Guinevere, whose tongue had not caught up with her brain yet.

Arthur kissed her again, his tongue darting in to find hers when her lips opened a little. He stroked gently along the roof of her mouth until she drew back with a satisfied noise.

"Good morning," she said, and stretched lazily along the couch, fingers curling and uncurling in the air.

"I knew you'd find it eventually, if I helped you," Arthur told her, watching her tongue flick out after a yawn. He stole another kiss while her lips were gently parted.

"Hmm?" said Gwen in confusion, then pulled back to look at him properly. She smoothed his hair down automatically. Arthur wondered if she knew that her own was a mess as well.

"Never mind," he said. "It'll pass. I looked for you last night, but you were already fast asleep in here. I didn't want to disturb you."

"Yes, I'd been..." Gwen trailed off. "I think I was talking to Lady Lavinia, trying to convince her of — something." Her eyes cleared a little as she said, "Arthur, are you sure you want to do this? It's not too late to change your mind, find another way—"

Arthur rested a finger under her chin and tilted her face up into another kiss.

"That's not really an answer," she said with mock severity. "This is serious, you know."

"I know," he agreed. "But whatever happens later today, I would like to think that the day began in the best possible way it could."

Gwen gave a sweet, secret smile and said, "I don't know if we have time for the best way."

Arthur kissed her again. "Then why don't we make do with second best?" he asked, and pulled her into his arms.

* * *

By the time Merlin and Lancelot rode within sight of the castle, the shadows of the trees were already lengthening into dusk. Merlin hadn't remembered riding this far from Camelot to reach the place in the woods from which they'd returned, but it must have been longer than he'd thought.

Lancelot wanted to ride on into the night, by the light of the moon if necessary, but Merlin persuaded him that the remaining distance would be easier and faster by daylight in any case, and that Lancelot would be no use to anyone if he arrived exhausted from a night of travel. They could set out a little before dawn, when they and the horses were rested, and still arrive before the trumpet announced the start of the tournament.

Convinced by Merlin's impeccable logic (and a meaningful word or two about how magic could put Lancelot out like a light while he was still sitting on his horse, rather than lying all comfortable on the ground), Lancelot finally conceded the point and set up camp for the night. Merlin solemnly promised to wake him at least two hours before dawn and then settled in with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to begin a quiet vigil.

He shook himself out of a quiet doze some time later, not knowing how late the hour was. The moon was high up in the sky and everything else was still and dark. Lancelot was snoring gently on the ground a few feet away.

Merlin smiled. For someone who had protested that he did not, absolutely did _not_ need to sleep, Lancelot was certainly doing a good imitation of it. Merlin could afford to yawn a little in the morning; he wouldn't be the one to face an unknown knight in combat tomorrow. Now there was a thought to keep you awake at night. It would turn out for the best, though, Merlin believed that. Lancelot fought like no one he'd ever seen before. And if it came down to it — if it came down to a choice between protecting his friends and playing by the rules — Merlin didn't have any doubt about what part he'd be playing at the tournament tomorrow.

Not that he would have said no to a nice warm bed for the night instead of sitting up on the cold ground. That was the sort of sacrifice nobody thought of when you offered to save the day. They thought about harrowing near misses with bandits in the forest or deadly battles or — Merlin yawned — making a desperate ride between two far distant kingdoms and barely making it back in time. No one thought about the fact that you weren't going to get in a good night's sleep along the way.

When Lancelot woke it was to the hiss and pop of a fire and the smell of frying sausages.

"What time is it?" he asked in a panic, leaping from slumber into almost complete wakefulness in an instant.

Merlin said, "Calm down, calm down," or something like it, around a mouthful of sausage. "You want some?"

The morning light was still dim, but it seemed to be growing brighter even as Lancelot looked around. The colours were just coming back to the world, and somewhere over the horizon the sun must be preparing to peek out in a dazzling display of brilliance. In other words, there was no time for sausages.

"We have to start for Camelot at once," Lancelot insisted, gathering up his belongings in a hurry and moving to saddle both horses. "There's not a moment to lose if we're to make it there before the tournament begins."

"It doesn't start f— sorry," Merlin said as a bit of sausage came out with the 'F' and hit Lancelot in the face. He swallowed the rest of the bite hastily. "Doesn't start for ages yet. It's barely even dawn. Here, have a sausage, you need to keep up your strength for the big day."

"We should leave now," said Lancelot. "It would be best to be at Camelot as soon as possible. We can worry about eating once we are sure of having arrived in time."

"We're not going to get to Camelot at all if you fall off your horse because you fainted with hunger," Merlin said, waving a sausage on a stick under Lancelot's nose.

Lancelot's stomach growled, traitorously, and he accepted the food with a grimace.

"Not like that," said Merlin, when Lancelot tried to bite off half of it at one go. "You'll burn your mouf — sorry — mouth or at least give yourself indigestion. Gaius always said indigestion was a man's worst enemy. That or swollen joints. I can never remember. You had to take the same foul-smelling red tonic for both of them, anyway."

Lancelot ate as patiently as he could while Merlin discoursed on the effects of various stomach ailments that would be enough to turn a person off eating for life.

"Where is Gaius, anyway?" Lancelot asked in a convenient pause before Merlin could move on to discussing inflammation of the bowels. "The last I heard he was at Camelot, albeit that was a long time ago."

"Oh, he went off on some sort of a physician's quest for the water of life," said Merlin, then paused thoughtfully. "Or the herb of life? It could've been a poultice, but that doesn't sound right. Anyway, I gather it's a sort of paid retirement where he does... field research, he called it. Mostly it's so he can let someone else look after people's boils at the castle for a change and he can go running around the countryside with this healer woman and they can cure all the villagers in the land. He sent me a letter a few weeks ago saying the mountain air had wonderful restorative properties and I'd better not be slacking off on my duties."

Merlin licked his fingers thoroughly and made a noise of contentment. He looked at the remaining bundle of provisions with a worryingly speculative eye.

"Now can we go?" Lancelot demanded, already standing in wait by his horse. Merlin shrugged and handed him a stick with another sausage once he'd mounted.

"Eat up," said Merlin, smothering the fire and gathering up his own possessions with infuriating slowness. "You can eat it on the way if you're that impatient about it, but if you choke to death, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't be in any position to complain about it if I do," Lancelot promised and finally, as Merlin mounted his own horse, he spurred Ambulatrix on with a sigh of relief.

Ambulatrix, accepting the situation grudgingly, allowed herself to be spurred on to a fast walk, turning into a trot as they cleared the last of the trees and headed across open ground, finally approaching the castle at Camelot.

There was an air of festival about the lower town. Whatever the reasons of state or politics for the tournament, it was an excuse for vendors to ply their wares to people from all over the kingdom and beyond who had come to watch the contests. Carts and horses filled the streets, moving at a sedate pace in and out of the tournament grounds. Some of them had flowers piled on top of the other wares.

"Why so many flowers?" Lancelot asked Merlin, forced back to a slow walk by the gradual ebbs and eddies of the crowd.

"For the Queen." A passing carter answered him instead. "They say she prefers flowers to all the jewels in the kingdom. You'll see when you reach the field. All the fashion these days, wild flowers."

Lancelot nodded absently and said nothing. An image of Guinevere with a single tiny purple flower tucked away behind her ear had come back to him, as vivid as if he had seen her yesterday. He half expected to see her around the next bend in the road, standing in the door of her old house. The door was dark, though, and he didn't recognize the blacksmith who was working the forge as they passed.

At last the crowds thinned out as they left the public path onto the tournament grounds and moved towards the tents marked out for the contestants. A few of the knights who were preparing nodded at Merlin in recognition, but their eyes passed over Lancelot without seeing him. He wondered if perhaps they thought he was Merlin's servant or a bodyguard, riding along behind him.

Merlin pointed out a tent a little larger than the others, set up right at the edge of the field. It was dyed in bright stripes of purple and orange, designed for a contestant who intended to stand out among his competitors. Merlin jumped down swiftly and held the reins of Lancelot's horse for him so he could dismount and go in.

Lancelot hesitated at the entrance, despite Merlin's encouraging motions. For all his haste to get here, he was reluctant to take the last step. He breathed deeply, forced himself to lift the flap of the tent, and stepped inside.

The interior was bathed in warm, reddish light, much dimmer than the sunshine outside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to what he was seeing. When he did, he found Arthur stepping forward, a surprised but pleased look on his face, and just behind him, Guinevere.

He forced himself to focus on Arthur, who was clasping Lancelot's hands and welcoming him back to Camelot.

"Not much of a reception, I'm afraid, the timing being what it is," Arthur was saying. "I hope you know that while you are welcome to fight, there is no obligation upon you to do so."

Lancelot was already shaking his head. "It would be my honour. In fact, from what Merlin has told me, it is my duty to do whatever I can to clear both my good name— " he allowed himself to steal a glance towards the back of the tent, where Gwen was standing frozen, a helmet dangling forgotten in her hands "— and the Queen's."

Arthur's hands gripped his more tightly. "Good man," he said. "I will not forget this, Lancelot. Not while I live. You must know that there is nothing I value above Guinevere's safety. And I can think of no one else I would trust besides myself to defend her honour."

"My lord," said Lancelot, not knowing what else to say.

Arthur clapped him on the arm. "Now, if you're here, I assume you've brought Merlin back?" When Lancelot nodded, Arthur added in a grim tone, "Good, I'd like a word or two with him." He ducked out of the tent.

"Are you sure that—" Lancelot started, and then he just stared at Guinevere.

"Oh, they'll be fine," Gwen rushed to reassure him. "Arthur's just been nervous and he likes to yell at Merlin. I think it calms him down, honestly. I don't know how Merlin feels about it."

Lancelot had been thinking that perhaps they should not be alone together, all circumstances considered, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead he gestured to the helmet she still held and turned over absently in her hands.

"Is that what I'm to wear?" he asked. "Is it Arthur's?"

"Oh! No! I mean, yes, it's yours," Gwen said, looking down at the thing as if seeing it for the first time. "Unless there's another you'd prefer to wear."

Lancelot shook his head. "I keep fighting in borrowed armour," he said wryly.

"But this is yours!" Gwen said. "Really, it is. It was another set I — when Merlin told me you were going to be coming back, I thought — I still had your measurements from all those years ago. I hope you don't mind. I wasn't sure if you'd still have a full set."

She put the helmet down and picked up a shirt of mail finer than he had ever worn. The rings fairly sparkled, even in the dim light. She held it out, inviting Lancelot to bend his head down to receive it, which he did with the feeling of receiving a benediction. She slipped it on and it settled down around his body like a glove.

"I hope it fits all right around the shoulders," Gwen said. "I couldn't quite make out my own writing, so what I thought was an 8 could have been a 5 and that wouldn't have worked very well..." She fussed around him, tugging the mail into place and making minute adjustments where none were needed.

"Stop, please," said Lancelot at last, catching her hands from where they were fluttering about looking for something to do. It was too much distraction. "It's perfect, thank you."

"Oh," said Gwen, looking not at him but where their hands met. Finally, after a terrifying, interminable pause, she raised her eyes to his. "Thank you for doing this. For me and — and for Arthur. I know it's a stupid, horrible situation and everything, but really he's wanted you here as much as I have."

"And I have longed to return to Camelot," said Lancelot, surprising himself with the roughness in his own voice. "Forgive me for not coming sooner? I am ashamed to say that I doubted my welcome."

Gwen smiled a little sadly. "There's nothing to forgive." Then she drew back her hands and took a step away from him. "Be careful out there," she told him, "there's something about this Sir Rothby I don't trust. If he tries anything — tricks, or cheating — just beware. We'll put a stop to it if we can, but it'll be you out there facing him."

"I'm not afraid of him," Lancelot assured her, "but now I should prepare. Tell Arthur... it's good to be back."

She smiled again, this time more happily, and left him alone with arms and armour.

* * *

Sir Gwaine had not slept easily for the last few nights. It was not only because many of the other knights were now avoiding him or giving him disgusted looks. Those few who were still willing to speak to him were not the sort of company he would have chosen. They were like the men he'd met in ale houses in every town, telling bawdy stories they didn't understand and often leaving the barmaids wishing for their absence after the first round of drinks.

It didn't matter how many times Sir Gwaine protested that he didn't want to hear their lewd speculations about the Queen. Since he had first broached the subject and dishonoured her name in public, it seemed common wisdom that there was nothing he would not hear against her. And once the floodgates were opened, once the Queen was torn down in the opinion of a few, there was nothing so foul that some people would not say it about her.

Sir Kay had whispered in his ear one night at supper that he heard rumours that when she was a serving girl, the Queen opened her legs to anyone with a title. Gwaine struck him where he sat, not thinking of the company around them in the hall, but when the King stood to ask the cause of the disturbance, Gwaine found himself unable to answer. He couldn't bring himself to repeat such filth before the royal court. Instead Sir Kay said he had reprimanded Sir Gwaine for an unchivalrous remark and that Gwaine had struck him out of anger.

Arthur had not inquired further after that, but suggested that Sir Gwaine might find clearing out the stables a more suitable way to work off his excess frustration. There could be no doubt in anyone's mind that Sir Gwaine was still being punished for what he had said about the Queen. In truth, mucking out the stables was almost a relief, since it freed him for a time from the distrustful glances and the all-too-friendly ones, both, of his fellow knights.

It was also, his conscience whispered, no more than he deserved.

He hadn't seen Merlin since he had dragged Gwaine out of the royal chambers and suggested he lie low for a while and keep out of sight, until things had blown over. Gwaine had asked, trying for humour, if he could lie low in Merlin's chambers and Merlin could protect him from the King's wrath. Merlin hadn't taken any note of the jest, though, and had merely said that he had too much to do to be in his chambers much right now. Besides, the Queen often spent time there, which might cause some awkward encounters. Gwaine took the hint that he was now _persona non grata_ to Gwen's friend as well.

He couldn't blame Merlin for that. Arthur had probably never wanted Gwaine as one of his knights. A handy man in a tight spot, that was what he had been to the king in their past adventures, but never a welcome companion for his own sake. No doubt Merlin had convinced him that Gwaine would be a suitable addition to the knights. No doubt he was regretting that choice now. Perhaps in his place, Gwaine would be just as unwilling to be seen with someone who had shamed the court of Camelot, and by association the old friend who brought him there. Although — a tug at his heart told him that he could never be ashamed of Merlin.

There was only one way he could think of to make things right again. If the King and Queen would allow it, Gwaine would take up the Queen's defense himself in the tournament, to prove to any and all who doubted it that there was no division in the court of Camelot. Perhaps if he showed that he was willing to risk his own life in defense of the Queen's honour, it would finally be believed that he had meant no harm by his foolish words.

It was with this intent that he prepared himself for battle on the morning of the tournament, resolutely ignoring the chilly looks from his fellow knights as he passed through the ranks of waiting competitors. He found the King standing by one of the tents alongside the field, in close discussion with someone. Then Arthur stepped out of the way and there — for the first time in days — was Merlin, by his side.

Gwaine approached them, ignoring the look of distaste that had appeared the moment Arthur saw him. He didn't want to see what Merlin's reaction was to his presence. Not until he had said what he had come to say.

"Sire, I have come to beg a request from you," said Gwaine, bowing as low as possible without actually getting down onto his knees and grovelling for mercy.

"I hardly think you are in a position to be asking anything from me just at the moment, Gwaine," said Arthur tightly.

Gwaine took a deep breath and straightened. "That is why I have come to ask that you allow me to fight in this trial in your place. Let me show the people of Camelot that I do not believe any slander of the Queen, and that I would die to defend her honour." He felt the back of his neck flush as he spoke, all too aware of Merlin's eyes on him. Gwaine had never been one for speeches, or for talking about honour, but he would do it gladly if it meant regaining his friends' trust.

Arthur smirked in apparent amusement. "Well, I must say, Gwaine, you've surprised me today. That's a very original idea, don't you think, Merlin?" he asked. "A very original idea indeed," he went on without giving Merlin a chance to answer.

Gwaine could feel his hopes rising.

"So original, in fact," said the King, "that at this very moment, Sir Lancelot is inside that tent preparing to fight in my place in the tournament. It's remarkable, isn't it, Merlin, how many people will volunteer to undertake a perilous task? As long as they know someone else will really be taking the risk in the end."

"Sir Lancelot?" Gwaine felt as if the ground had just disappeared from under him. "He's here? but—"

"Yes, Merlin's been making himself useful for a change. Now, if you'll excuse me, since it seems Guinevere _won't_ be needing either of us to defend her honour today, I may as well find a place in the stands. You might want to do the same, if you have no other pressing engagements. See what a truly honourable man looks like. Ah, Guinevere," he said as Gwen emerged from the tent behind him. "Shall we go?"

Gwen smiled warmly at Merlin and somewhat less warmly at Gwaine, although at least she made the effort.

"Thank you," she said to Merlin, "for bringing him back to us." With that, she and Arthur left to take their places for the tournament.

"I didn't know—" Gwaine protested belatedly. "I really meant — I didn't _know_ he was going to—"

"I know — I know you didn't," Merlin said, "no one did. We only arrived this morning. I suppose Arthur's still a little angry about the whole thing."

"You've been gone?" Gwaine asked in surprise, that part of what Arthur had said finally registering.

"You didn't notice?" Merlin replied with a frown. "I thought — I've been gone two days, ever since Gwen was accused. You really didn't — miss me being here? at all?"

"I thought—" Gwaine started. _That you'd been avoiding me_ , he didn't say. "I thought it seemed quieter around here lately," he finished instead and could have kicked himself when Merlin's face drooped a little.

"Just kidding," he added, nudging Merlin gently. "Of course I missed you, we all did."

Merlin seemed to accept that. "I'd better go — you know, help Lancelot get ready. Make sure he's not exhausted from the trip."

"Right, good man," said Gwaine. "That Lancelot, coming all the way here. They don't make them like that anymore, do they?"

He tried to contain the bitterness in his voice. As far as he could tell, Merlin didn't catch it, because he just smiled happily.

"There's no one like him," Merlin said with a grin. "You'll see, this is the best thing to have happened. Have you seen him fight? He's fantastic. Best knight in the kingdom. Arthur's right, you should get a seat soon or you'll miss your chance when it starts. I'll see you later, then?"

"Right," Gwaine muttered, making his way back into the crowd of spectators.

Gaily dressed peasants in carefully mended clothes, new ribbons sewn in for the occasion, looked at him in puzzlement as he passed. Some of them had flowers pressed in their hands or woven into their hair, like something out of a fairy carnival.

Gwaine felt a fool, arrayed for a combat in which he was not wanted, his useless armour making him stand out amid the holiday-makers. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he left. It would be a betrayal of everything he had sworn when he accepted his knighthood, of course, but if no one missed him, would it really matter that he was gone?

* * *

Lancelot had years of experience in preparing himself for combat without help from anyone. Most warlords didn't check to see if your plate armour was shined to a polish and they didn't bother sending you servants to help put it on either. Likewise, villagers who wanted protecting from bandits didn't usually inquire about your personal appearance, so long as you were _there_.

This time, though, appearances mattered. His hands shook on the straps of his buckler.

"Ah, Merlin, thank goodness," he said as he saw his friend come in. "Could you help me—"

"You were pleased to see Gwen, right?" Merlin demanded. He pointed accusingly at Lancelot, who had to force himself not to take a step back.

"I ... yes, of course I was," Lancelot said in bewilderment. He had nothing to feel guilty about, he told himself. Of course he had been glad to see Guinevere again. They were... old friends.

"You tell her that?" Merlin asked harshly.

"Well, I — yes," Lancelot admitted. His brain stalled trying to remember what exactly he had said. It had seemed perfectly innocent at the time. Was there something she had repeated, to Arthur or to Merlin, that had brought on this anger? "I told her I was glad to see her, and Arthur, and all of you again. It's good to be back at Camelot."

"Exactly," said Merlin, gesturing broadly with his arm as if to demonstrate the point to an audience. "Exactly, because that's what you do when you meet an old friend. Sure, maybe it hasn't been years, maybe it's only been a couple of days, but you still say, 'Oh, hullo Merlin! Good to see you again, how was your trip?' That's what you say. You _did_ say 'I missed you while you were gone?' _Right?_ "

Lancelot, who was feeling a bit wrong-footed in this conversation, made a noise of agreement.

"Well, that's it then," said Merlin, actually throwing his hands up in exasperation. "He hates me. I don't know why, I haven't done anything but try to protect him from Arthur's temper — not to mention save him from the consequences of his own stupid mistakes — but I don't know why I bother! He could barely even look at me. And this is the thanks I get? You know, when I think about how I searched the whole of Albion to bring him back here, the number of taverns I had to go into, picking up drunks off the floor to ask if they'd heard of him passing through... well, it just goes to show you what friendship is worth to some people, doesn't it?"

Lancelot grasped onto the first piece of comprehensible information in the maelstrom of irrelevance and asked, "You're talking about Gwaine, then?"

Merlin nodded mournfully. "Do _you_ think he hates me?" he asked. "He doesn't, doesn't he?"

"Merlin, I have maybe five minutes before I have to face an opponent of unknown strength and capabilities, I don't know if I can really..." he trailed off.

Merlin was looking at him with an expression of such profound misery that he couldn't help melting a little. Lancelot sighed.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" he said at last.


	10. Chapter 10

The crowd was growing restless. It had been announced that the first challenge would be a trial by combat in defense of the Queen's virtue. Many of the townspeople claimed this was mere formality, a display orchestrated in her honour. Some whispered of an accusation, a show of support by the King. They said it was rumoured that the King himself was fighting as her champion. Others said, surely not, it would be a champion fighting in the King's name. That was how royalty worked; they did not take to the field themselves if they could find someone else to do it for them. Still others remembered the young Prince Arthur and did not doubt his willingness to put his own life on the line.

Speculation flew through the air, distorted and magnified by every hearer as they waited for the trumpet that would sound the opening of the events. Among the stands set aside for the nobility, the lesser courtiers were quiet, waiting to judge the tide of events. The seats reserved for the royal family were still empty.

Nearby, the delegation from Northumbria, nominally the celebrated guests for whose presence the tournament had been decreed, sat isolated amid the hubbub. Seats remained empty around them, avoided by cautious courtiers who did not want to risk an unwise show of support, should this go badly for Sir Rothby. Lady Lavinia sat imperturbable in the midst of it all, a faint enigmatic smile playing about her lips.

At last on an unseen signal the trumpet sounded and the two combatants made their way out onto the field in full armour. The buzz of the crowd died away to almost perfect silence as they approached each other. When they were standing almost close enough to touch, there was a rustle of movement among the nobility as the King and Queen made their way, arm in arm, to the very centre of the stands.

A general murmur of surprise greeted the King's presence. Part of the draw for this event had been the popular hope of seeing him compete again. Now, the disappointed spectators turned their attention to the mysterious Queen's champion.

Sir Rothby tore off his helmet and pointed his sword accusingly at the knight facing him on the field.

"You are not King Arthur," he exclaimed. "By what right do you stand against me here today?"

The other knight pointedly ignored the threat of the sword held up almost to his throat and removed his helmet with every appearance of casualness.

"By the best right I know," he said, when his face was revealed.

It was clear from the lack of response from most of the courtiers that he was unfamiliar to them, but there was one gasp among those in the stands. The Lady Lavinia had her hand over her mouth as she looked in dismay from the Queen to the Queen's champion.

"Do you not know who I am?" the champion demanded of Sir Rothby. "You should, since you claim to have seen me here at Camelot. Albeit your claim is already suspect, as I was many miles away at the time. My name is Sir Lancelot and I am the Queen's champion."

Sir Rothby lowered his sword slowly and took a step back, placatory. "I have no quarrel with you, sir. It seems we have both been the victim of a misunderstanding."

"No," Sir Lancelot said. "The time for words is passed. You had the chance to settle this with words of wisdom before and would not hear reason. Now the only judgment you deserve is that of an honest blade that cannot be turned aside by your treacherous tongue."

He replaced his helmet and made his salute. Sir Rothby turned uncertainly toward the stands, but found no help there.

"Surely you will agree," said the King, "that Sir Lancelot has as great a right as any man to champion the Queen's cause? Especially as, in doing so, he will uphold the integrity of his own name as well."

Sir Rothby was not looking at the King, however. His eyes had fixed on Lady Lavinia, who gave a short sharp shake of the head.

Unheard amidst the rising tide of murmuring from the stands, Merlin leaned in close to the Queen's ear so he could ask, "Is he actually a knight now? Because he wasn't when we were talking about ten minutes ago while he was getting dressed."

"It's all right," Gwen whispered back. "Arthur had a quick go at knighting him behind the tents just before he came out."

"Is that legal?" Merlin asked.

"He's been knighted before," Gwen pointed out. "Think of it as more of a... renewal of his license to be a knight."

"I didn't know those needed renewing," Merlin whispered. "Is there some sort of an exam to make sure candidates are still qualified? Haven't been banished from the kingdom since last application? Check..."

"Merlin?" Gwen said under her breath, clutching onto his arm.

"Yes?" he whispered back at her.

In answer she pointed to the field, where the knights were already facing off against each other, circling cautiously and taking the other's measure.

"Oh," said Merlin, and soon he was clutching at her sleeve as well.

* * *

"Very well," Sir Rothby said before he replaced his helmet. "If that is what you wish, let it be so. No one can say you were not warned."

He returned Lancelot's salute and then, almost before Lancelot had brought his own sword to the ready, he was upon him.

Lancelot parried a series of blows on sheer instinct, his arm moving to deflect each one before his eye could see the movement. He lifted his sword almost too late to block a crashing downward blow, and the resulting clash rang loudly across the field. Sir Rothby retreated after that and they circled each other warily.

Then Sir Rothby was attacking again, the same pattern almost exactly. At the last second, Lancelot dodged to the side, risking a deadly blow to the head if he was not fast enough, in order to catch Sir Rothby off guard as he struck from above. Sir Rothby's sword missed his head by inches, coming down on Lancelot's left shoulder instead with a screech where it hit his pauldron.

He ignored the pain as the force of the blow jarred his arm in its socket and brought his own sword around to hit Sir Rothby's left flank. It was only a glancing blow, but the man stumbled forward a step or two, off-balance, enough for Lancelot to land another, more devastating blow. His attention was caught, however, by something he saw slip out from beneath the collar of Sir Rothby's hauberk. It was nothing but a piece of string holding a scrap of bundled cloth, but it commanded Lancelot's attention long enough to give Sir Rothby the chance to recover himself, and Sir Rothby was securely back on his feet before Lancelot could press the brief advantage.

There was something about that string.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Lancelot had asked Elaine, or rather the simulacrum of himself that spoke with her voice.

"Of course." She — he — it was like looking into a mirror that acted on its own — nodded. "It would be a pretty silly thing to do on a whim. But it's the only way my father will ever allow me to fight in a tournament here, and I want to do that before I leave. I thought it'd be hard to talk you into leaving before the last round, but it seems you have your own reasons after all."

"See? And now there's no reason you can't come back with me right away," Merlin said happily. "Do you have anything you need to pack?"

Lancelot shook his head, still disoriented and confused. "I don't — everything I had for travelling is still in the stables. The armour and the sword aren't mine — in fact, they belong rightfully to her, I believe." He nodded toward the armour and weapon, still scattered where he had removed them after the morning's fight.

Elaine went and picked up the sword with a simple look of happiness. "When I was little I used to go and look at this in my father's rooms, sometimes. Once I got bigger I used to sneak in to see it on my own and pretend to fight dragons with it. Then one day he caught me, and yelled a lot about playing with sharp objects, and after that I wasn't allowed to do more than watch my brothers' training."

She set the sword back down with a sigh and gathered up the armour instead. "You could keep it," she said, "the sword. He did give it to you, after all."

"No, I don't think he did," Lancelot said. "He meant it to go with the armour. And he spent that whole conversation telling me about your ancestors who had owned it before you."

Elaine looked at him oddly, but added the sword to the pile in her arms.

"There's just one other thing," she said, hesitating. "I need... your hair."

Lancelot stared at her. "My _hair_...?" he asked incredulously. "What for?"

She produced a pair of scissors from somewhere in the pile of armour and said, "Just a little off the back? Dame B said just a pinch would do."

"You're going to make a charm?" Merlin asked with sudden interest.

He was up and poking at Elaine's face, which seemed an extremely hazardous pursuit in Lancelot's mind. Elaine was regarding the move with a sceptical look.

"Lancelot, look at this, her face doesn't change, it's an illusion. That's what you need the hair for, right?" Merlin asked her. "For the physical parts?"

Lancelot held a hand up to the nape of his neck, feeling a little defensive of his physical parts.

Elaine shrugged expressively and backed away from Merlin's curiously probing fingers. "Dame B just said I needed some of his hair for the charm. I didn't ask her why. Do you want to do it yourself?" she asked Lancelot. "I can probably get it from somewhere it won't be so obvious, if you're worried about the look of it."

"I'll get it," Merlin volunteered a little too eagerly for Lancelot's taste. "Is the charm made up yet? Can I see it?" he asked as he seized the scissors and snipped away a bit of hair from behind Lancelot's ear, none too carefully, Lancelot felt as the cold metal pressed close against his skin. There was a _snick_ and then the scissors were removed without, thankfully, taking any of his ear with them.

Elaine indicated a tiny pouch that hung around her neck. Lancelot hadn't noticed it until she tugged it out farther from beneath the neck of her tunic. It was just a thin yellow string. Merlin sprinkled a few strands of cut hair into the pouch and something... changed. The illusion of Lancelot's body solidified around her, became indefinitely more present, more real.

Merlin prodded Elaine's nose and removed his hand quickly when she glared at him for it. "It's the same shape as it looks now," he confirmed.

"What shape was it before?" asked Lancelot, who was feeling the hair behind his ear trying to determine how strange it would look. He wasn't a vain man. He had cut his own hair often enough just to keep it from becoming a distraction, without worrying too much about the results. It was simply disconcerting to be looking at himself, that was all. It made him worry that perhaps if he looked in a mirror, _he_ would not look as much like himself anymore.

Merlin had started some conversation with Elaine about how the charm was made, which Elaine knew very little about, and Lancelot had the impression that the only reason they were not paying a visit to interrogate the enchantress who had made it was the shortness of time. This was confirmed when Merlin dragged him out of the tower room, while the other Lancelot stayed behind in his place.

He felt the patch of slightly shorter hair behind his ear again as they rode away. Such a little thing, and suddenly he was someone else, or rather, someone else was him. Would anyone notice? he had wondered. Was he so easily replaceable?

* * *

Lancelot had only let his mind drift for a moment, but already Sir Rothby was pressing forward with another attack that had Lancelot stumbling back to maintain the distance between them. He slashed wildly just to give himself some room, not really expecting to hit anything, but to force Sir Rothby to back off a little. It worked, for a moment, and then Sir Rothby was back on the offensive.

It was enough time to let Lancelot regain his footing, though, and he fended off Sir Rothby's next round of attacks more easily, his remaining attention absorbed by the thin string that had snuck its way out of concealment and snagged on a link of armour. There was an idea half-formed in his mind, only half-formed because there was no pause in the trading of blows to consider it at any length. He could only act, and hope.

He let Sir Rothby back him up all the way to the boards surrounding the arena and then feigned disorientation, darting first one way then another to avoid Sir Rothby's attacks, letting himself almost be caught. At last he threw his helmet aside as if in frustration and ducked away at the last possible moment before Sir Rothby's blade came sailing through the air towards his head. With that accomplished, he put a safer amount of space between them, and waited.

It was a matter of honour that a knight should not retain an unfair advantage in combat, once he had forced his opponent to discard or otherwise lose the same protection. In a joust, both knights unsheathed their swords when one was knocked from his horse — if the knight who had been unseated still lived and could stand to fight on, of course. There was nothing honourable in striking a man down who was not equally equipped to defend himself. Sir Rothby would now be expected to even the scales.

Sir Rothby, pausing to nudge the discarded helmet with his foot, slowly drew off his own and tossed it aside. He gave every show of nonchalance at the act, but now his face was bare, Lancelot could see the wariness in his eyes at the move. So he was expecting a trap. Good. Let Sir Rothby think that Lancelot wanted his helmet off so he could crack his skull. It would make him focus his defense in all the wrong places.

Lancelot brought a series of bold, ambitious strokes raining down upon Sir Rothby's head, grasping his sword with both hands, foregoing the greater part of the protection of his shield in order to bring his full strength to bear. Sir Rothby warded off each blow with his shield, swiping low beneath Lancelot's reach whenever an opening allowed. Lancelot felt the sword slice through his tunic and skid along the mail over his chest, making him pay for his line of attack.

When he could risk no more to put Sir Rothby off his guard, Lancelot leapt back and brought his shield back down to cover himself. Then, with a wide turn of his shoulder, he lifted his sword up as if preparing to strike another over-handed blow.

While Sir Rothby's shield was high above his head, anticipating a blow that would never come, Sir Lancelot dropped to the ground and kicked his legs out from under him.

Sir Rothby fell gracefully, even caught off guard, controlling his descent from the moment he lost his balance. His back hit the dirt with a quiet _whumph_ , raising a cloud of dust around him. His sword flew out of his hand so his arm could break his fall and Lancelot stepped hard on his shoulder to prevent him recovering it.

Sir Rothby's hand scrabbled in the dirt. In a moment he would have his sword in his hand again and then the leg pinning him to the ground would be an easy target. Lancelot prodded at the edge of Sir Rothby's hauberk, where he could see the faint line of the string entwined around the neck hole. The sword was an instrument not designed for such work and he came nearer to cutting Sir Rothby's throat than anything else. He managed to work the tip of it between the string and a loop of mail just as Sir Rothby's fingertips found the hilt they sought, and Lancelot jerked his sword abruptly to try to slice through the string, nearly catching the underside of Sir Rothby's jaw in the process. It snagged, then gave beneath the edge of the blade, and then the point of Lancelot's sword was free of it.

He thought for a moment that he had failed, that he had left the string intact, or worse, that snapping it had no effect. Sir Rothby had already got hold of his sword and Lancelot was forced to remove his foot from the man's shoulder and step hastily out of range before he could retaliate.

Lancelot watched Sir Rothby re-compose himself with a sinking feeling. He had been wrong, then. Or worse, he had been right, but he had missed his one chance to prove it. Sir Rothby would be on his guard now and would not likely fall for the same trick again.

Sir Rothby rose up onto his knees with a furious expression on his face, but as he moved to stand a shift came over his features. At first it was nothing very noticeable, a wavering or shimmering as if water were pouring down his face, bending the light in strange subtle ways across the skin. He scrambled to his feet, leaning briefly on his shield, and immediately swung out with an angry, sweeping blow aimed at Lancelot's ribs.

Lancelot stepped back, quickly. He did it again and again, his sword lowered and his shield at his side, staying out of the way, but keeping Sir Rothby in sight. The crowds began to jeer their disapproval. Watching one man chase another around the ring was no sort of entertainment, not after the spectacular fall of a minute before. Lancelot had no doubt this change in tactics looked like sudden cowardice, but it did not matter. As he watched his opponent's face, the shift became more and more obvious.

The whole of Sir Rothby's visage began to flicker and change. It was as if the features were reforming themselves, clay or molten glass remolding itself across a different surface. The structure of the bones was changing, shrinking and elongating until the face resolved into a new pattern altogether. There were changes in the hair as well; it lightened, grew, and tumbled out at greater length. The knight's body was shrinking ever so slightly as well, becoming lighter, quicker, less heavily muscled and more loose-limbed. The armour no longer fit quite right.

By now Lancelot's opponent had noticed what was happening, and so had the people in the stands. The jeering of the crowd fell into a stunned silence. One or two gasps ran around the edge of the arena. Into the hush, someone whispered " _magic!_ "

The woman — for it was a woman Lancelot was facing now, no doubt about that — glared at him murderously. Her eyes glowed golden for an instant and Lancelot moved instinctively to cover himself with his shield as she began intoning words in an ancient tongue he could not understand. He doubted a mere physical shield would do anything to defend him against magical attack. He turned his head, searching the stands in desperation for Merlin's face, hoping there was something his friend could do to protect him. He was mouthing the name, " _Merlin!_ " when a noise like a thunderclap burst out from where the woman stood.

A whirlwind of light and sound descended upon them, rendering Lancelot blind and deaf for an instant, his senses lost in the confusion of what he was facing. When it cleared he was standing alone on the field, cowering beneath his useless shield from an enemy that was no longer there.

His eyes raking across the crowds once more, he saw an array of shocked faces, forming every emotion from bewilderment to terror. Half the people in the stands had risen to their feet, whether to flee or to intercede they would never know.

Among those who looked less shocked than the others were Arthur and Guinevere, both wide-eyed but not looking wholly surprised, and Merlin, whose arm was halfway raised to intervene. And there, amid the otherwise motionless tableau of spectators, a single person was moving slowly but surely away from her place at the edge of the stands, trying to slip away before anyone else could react to the events.

Lancelot raised his arm to point. It was trembling.

"Guards!" he said. It came out in a choked whisper, but the movement was enough to draw the attention of the scores of people whose eyes had been fixed upon him in the otherwise empty arena. There was sudden chaos in the stands as people near the fleeing woman moved as if to intercept her but drew back when they got too close.

There were cries for guards and a hubbub of voices rose up in confusion, crying "Stop her!" and "Sorcery!" and making incoherent pleas for protection. Lancelot saw one swift, sure figure dart out from the stands on the other side and noticed without surprise that Merlin was now missing from the Queen's side. Lancelot silently wished him luck catching up with anyone in the general chaos that had erupted across the grounds.

* * *

Merlin ran, flapping in the sleeves of his ridiculous new councillor's robes across the castle grounds. He cursed the formality of court protocols. It would have been a lot easier to chase someone down in a shirt and trousers. At least Lady Lavinia would be equally encumbered by formal dress. Merlin tore off his official councillor's hat and tossed it aside, just on principle.

The grounds had been mostly bare when he ran out after Lady Lavinia; everyone who could be at the tournament had been there to watch the spectacle. Now, though, the cries from the perturbed crowds had attracted the notice of the castle guards, and some of the people from the tournament grounds were streaming out in aimless worried curiosity.

Merlin kept his eyes on the fleeing figure who was beating a hasty retreat towards the castle. He hoped none of the guards would try to stop her themselves; the last thing this day needed was more violence, and he doubted she would agree to go quietly.

That, and he wanted to face her alone, just in case he needed to use any slightly unorthodox means.

He lost sight of his quarry turning a corner into the main courtyard, but spotted her again running up the steps to the castle's main entrance. He was near enough to hear her say in a haughty voice to one of the sentries, "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to pursue the sorcerer?"

The guards let her pass in a state of perplexity, not sure who they were being ordered to pursue, or by whom. They had put hands to their weapons by the time Merlin reached them, and were looking around in a state of high, if confused, alert, for any signs of a fleeing sorcerer.

Merlin told them rather breathlessly to stay where they were. Everything was perfectly all right, or it would be very soon, and there was no reason for them to leave their post.

The guards looked relieved to have the responsibility taken off their shoulders, but Merlin didn't have time to worry about whether they would obey his instructions, so he muttered a spell under his breath as he passed by that would stop anyone trying to enter or exit by that doorway for the next few minutes.

Merlin knew all too well, however, that not all the castle exits were so well guarded. The train of Lady Lavinia's skirt was just whicking around the end of a long corridor, and Merlin jogged to catch up.

She was headed straight for the dungeons. It could have been a foolish error from a noblewoman unfamiliar with the layout of the castle, but Merlin didn't think so. If Morgause had been here, in disguise as one of the Northumbrian nobles, there was only one person who was her likely accomplice — and _she_ certainly knew all the secret ways out of the castle.

She was almost at the dungeon entrance when he spotted her again. Another minute and she would be down the stairs and facing a handful of guards, but Merlin didn't fancy their chances against her. Merlin skidded to a halt and extended his hand toward the looming door to the dungeons. It slammed shut in front of her, bringing her up short.

Still unaware of anyone behind her, she pushed at the doors as if trying to dislodge someone on the other side. The heavy oak rattled violently, metal chains and bars shaking, but the barrier held. She cursed and spoke a spell for opening, loudly but to no avail.

"It's no use, Morgana," Merlin said as evenly as he could manage.

She whipped around, finally aware of him. There was a look of such undisguised anger and loathing on her face when she recognized him that it left him in no doubt, now, as to who she was.

"Get out of my way, serving boy," she spat. She strode toward him menacingly and it was all Merlin could do not to flinch and step aside reflexively.

"You know I can't do that," he said. "I know what you've been trying to do, and if I let you go this time you're just going to come back and try to do it again."

"You really think you can stop me, Merlin?" she asked scornfully. "Do you have any idea of the things I'm capable of?"

"Yeah, I think I've got a pretty good idea," said Merlin. "I know you're capable of leading an army against your own brother on the very day of your father's funeral. I know you're capable of accusing someone who was once your loyal friend of adultery and putting her life in danger just to manipulate one honourable man. And that you'd have let Morgause kill another honourable man today, just for interfering with your plans."

"Unlike you, of course," Morgana snapped back at him. "You never attacked a friend, did you, Merlin? Or does it not count if you poison them?"

"Haven't you got tired of being Morgause's puppet yet?" Merlin asked.

"You're one to talk." Morgana said laughed, bitterly. "You don't understand anything about me, Merlin. You never did."

"I thought I did, once," said Merlin, "even thought we maybe had some things in common."

"Well, you were wrong about that, weren't you?" Morgana sneered. "I've never been anything like you."

"I also thought you were capable of mercy and compassion," Merlin said. "Was I wrong about that, too? We can still end this without anyone else getting hurt, if you haven't forgotten how to do that."

"Camelot's the wrong place for mercy," said Morgana. "Be thankful I haven't killed you yet. That's already more compassion than you deserve for being Uther's little puppet."

"I was never—" Merlin said, "I serve Arthur — I've always served Arthur."

"It doesn't make any difference. You think Uther's son is any better? You think because you've got new clothes and a new title now that anything else has changed?"

"What, and things would be so much better under you?" Merlin asked incredulously.

" _Yes_ ," Morgana said fervently. "So many things are going to change, Merlin. There are so many things that have been wrong at the heart of this kingdom, so many people who have been hurt. I wish no one had to die, but Uther was a bloody tyrant, and there's only one way I can make sure that doesn't happen all over again. If you want a chance of surviving your master, you'll stand aside _now_."

"We can't do that," said a sad voice from somewhere behind Merlin.

"Gwen." Morgana froze. "You shouldn't be here, this has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with us," said Gwen, coming to stand by Merlin's side. "You don't really think you can do this? Attack someone we love — attack _us_ to get to him — and expect us not to care — not to do everything we can to stop you?"

"You don't understand," Morgana said, "I never wanted to hurt you, Gwen, it was just —"

"I just got in the way, right?" Gwen asked. "That's what happens to anyone who gets in your way, after all, isn't it? They get hurt, and you feel sorry about it, but you keep on doing the same things anyway."

Her fingers slipped into Merlin's hand, and he squeezed them once in wordless comfort.

"It's not like that," Morgana said pleadingly, "sometimes there's just no other way —"

"There's always another way," said Gwen, still sadly but with a touch of anger now. "It's just that it isn't always easy. Do you think it's easy being Queen?"

"I don't know what you—" Morgana started.

Gwen ignored her. "Even if you get everything you want, there will still be compromises, and things you have to do because it's expected of you, because it's part of the job. If you're so sure this is what you want, go ahead. Kill me. You wanted a crown, right? Take mine, it will probably fit you."

She took off her crown and tossed it at Morgana's feet. Merlin could feel her hand trembling against his, but her voice didn't waver.

"There, I won't even fight you for it," she said. "You'll have to kill Merlin, too, of course. He'll probably still try to stop you whatever I say. And then there are the castle guards, and the knights, and Arthur, and by the time you've been crowned there won't be much of a court left to follow you, but never mind that. After all, if there were another way you'd have thought of it by now, wouldn't you?"

"Gwen—" Morgana choked out. She hadn't moved to pick up the crown. She was standing staring down at it in horrified fascination, as if at a serpent poised to attack. She lifted her eyes when Gwen was finished, tried to meet her gaze, but couldn't hold it. "What else can I do? Other than run away and start this all over again... It's too late to come back."

"I don't know," said Gwen, "but maybe we could talk about it. Before anyone else gets hurt. Including you," she added softly.

Morgana looked at her properly at last, searching Gwen's face. "If I agree, what's to stop Arthur having me executed at dawn?" she asked.

"I am," Gwen promised. "I won't let that happen." She held out her hand and slowly, tentatively, Morgana reached out and took it.

"At the very least," Gwen added with a small smile, "I'll make sure your execution is set for the day _after_ tomorrow, so you have plenty of time to escape."

Morgana uttered something between a laugh and a sob and let Gwen lead her away, back towards the guest quarters. Merlin followed cautiously in their wake, half expecting Morgana to break away at a run at any moment, but she went along docilely enough.

Merlin wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but he was willing to bet there was no spell in the world to accomplish it.


	11. Chapter 11

Rupert, Earl of Northumbria was feeling, for the first time since his arrival at Camelot, distinctly peakish and not at all confidant in his bargaining position.

"I must assure you, sire, my lord," he said, stumbling over the words and throwing in an extra bow for good measure, "that I had not the slightest idea of any deception. Always a most loyal — a most _honest_ — servant of Camelot — and of your highness — your majesty."

Rupert eyed the guards around him nervously. He had been escorted very politely from the tournament grounds by a number of guards who, having missed their chance to catch two fleeing Northumbrians that day, were not taking any chances on a third. At least one of the guards had taken the opportunity to prod him — _accidentally_ — in the ribs as they moved along.

"You say you were not involved in this conspiracy," said King Arthur. "And yet they came here disguised as your own kith and kin. You must have had some idea."

"We're hardly even family!" Rupert hastened to say. "I'd never even met the boy until we set out. The last time I saw Lady Lavinia was when I was ten years old at my sister's funeral. She looks the same now as she did then, only a little older, of course. And they met us at the road from Sir Rothby's manor, what else was I supposed to think? You can't cross-question extended family, it isn't polite."

"Did you recognize the woman posing as your nephew?" Arthur demanded.

"I told you, my lord, I'd never seen the boy before," Rupert said frantically. "I don't even know what Sir Rothby looks like — or I didn't until I met him — her — I don't even know if that _is_ his face!"

"What I asked you," said the King slowly, "was did you recognize the sorceress _after_ the enchantment was lifted and her true face was revealed?"

"What do you — how could I?" Rupert extemporized. "That is, it was a very long way from the stands, and they did have their helmets on for so much of the time, it was hard to see..." He had an idea, just a suspicion, of who she might have been, based on what some of the guards had been murmuring as they apprehended him, but he wasn't about to admit to anything in these circumstances.

"Her name is Morgause," said Arthur, confirming Rupert's worst suspicions, "and she has tried to kill me, deceive me, and even led armies against me more times than I can count. This is the woman you brought into my court as a protected — as an _honoured_ member of your household. Can you think of any reason why I should not hold you accountable for her treasonous acts?"

"But I didn't know!" Rupert protested. "I didn't know who she was, or what she was planning. You must believe me, sire."

"Yet you defended her slanderous accusations against the Queen," King Arthur said harshly, "and encouraged the impostor to make a mockery of this court with her lies. Do you expect me to believe you had no idea what else she was planning?"

"None at all, I swear it," said Rupert. "What else can I do, other than assure you that I am entirely innocent in this, that Northumbria has never had any designs..."

The king watched in deep contemplation as Rupert floundered for words.

"I might be more willing to believe in your loyalty," Arthur said at last, "if it were not for the unfortunate state of confusion that seems to have arisen over the fealty owed to the crown of Camelot by the noble families of Northumbria."

"Confusion?" asked Rupert. "I don't understand how that can be connected to—" and then he spotted the faintest flicker of a smirk across the King's features.

Aha, thought Rupert. So everything _did_ come down to politics in the end. Still, it was better than being executed.

"I am very sorry to hear you talk of such confusion," Rupert said. "I had thought our discussions were tending most promisingly towards a reaffirmation of Northumbria's fealty on very similar terms to those that existed in your father's time."

It wasn't what he had hoped: a lessening of tribute, or even its end, would have bought him a great deal of respect at home; a little more autonomy might have brought recognition from the neighbouring kingdoms. Ah well. Politics was rarely a joyous occupation.

"Surely," he continued, "if anything has emerged from our visit to your court — these unfortunate incidents aside — it is the warm friendship and connection we feel towards Cam— toward the rest of Camelot."

"You would be willing to renew the vows of fealty your father made to my father, as a gesture of your goodwill?" the King asked, his smirk now barely hidden. "And you will allow one of my councillors to examine you and all your party for any signs of magical devices or enchantments?"

Rupert bowed, deeply enough to hide any stray annoyance that might have made its way into his own expression. "It would seem to be a fitting conclusion to our visit here, and I'm certain that such an examination will seem a very reasonable precaution to all our people." Or Rupert would have choice words with them about the importance of diplomacy.

"I am very glad to hear you say that," said Arthur. "It would be unfortunate, would it not, if such conspiracies and stratagems were to divide the loyalties of true friendship?"

It would, Rupert agreed silently, be almost as unfortunate as finding one's carefully laid plans interrupted by an unauthorized presence among one's delegation.

* * *

They were already singing songs about it, Gwaine thought in appalled disbelief. It hadn't even been a day. The younger knights and even the youngest squires, some of them no more than nine or ten years old, had been allowed to remain all night in the Great Hall to celebrate, officially, the successful renewal of the treaty between Camelot and Northumbria and, unofficially, the vindication of the Queen's good name, the victory of the Queen's champion over the sorceress, and Lancelot having the prettiest hair that Camelot had ever seen, to judge from some of the impromptu ballads being composed in its honour.

The cheerfulness was interfering with Gwaine's drinking. He'd made some efforts to relocate to the village pub, which might even be quieter at this hour, but drinking Lancelot's health over and over was taking a toll on his own, and he didn't get farther than the next bench.

"Sir Lancelot is the hottest shot, the bravest knight in Camelot," sang one of the squires with great fervour and questionable accuracy, since no one had actually seen the new arrival at archery practice yet.

Not that he was likely to be any worse at that than at swordplay, Gwaine reflected morosely. Lancelot would probably prove to be the greatest archer in the land, and the most popular knight and, now that the whole business with the Queen was cleared up, he'd probably have courtiers falling all over themselves to work their way into his bed. It was sickening. (Though that could have been the third flagon of ale.)

Someone needed to show these... these sycophants that Lancelot wasn't the only knight in Camelot who knew how to swing a sword. What they needed — more than silly songs that were already exaggerating the man's prowess — was to see Sir Lancelot knocked firmly on his arse, preferably on a very muddy field. There was one behind the tournament grounds that would suit the purpose admirably, having the double advantage of being suitably public as well as directly along the path the horses took from the stables and therefore considerably augmented by horse muck.

Then another servant came round with a fresh pitcher of ale and Gwaine forgot why he was worried about anything. He tried a stumbling step off the bench and found that his legs worked again, for a specific, tottering value of _worked_ , and went off in search of Merlin, to tell him that he was his very best friend in the world.

Everything after that went a little blurry, but he remembered singing under Merlin's window, only it turned out to belong to someone else. In the morning he woke up in the old physician's quarters with his face mashed against a hard surface covered in something green and sticky. Every part of him ached, but especially his head. Something prickled at his palm and his attempts to scratch at it revealed a note tucked into his hand saying:

"Let's call it the best of three. And take it from me, if you stand aside for someone better, you have only yourself to blame when you get exactly what you wanted."

Gwaine could make neither heads nor tails of it, and the light was uncomfortably, uncommonly bright, so he left the mystery unsolved in favour of going back to sleep.

* * *

The Northumbrian delegation set off at first light, Earl Rupert seeming unaccountably eager to be elsewhere. He made a great show of sending a messenger on before him to remind his steward of the need for haste in dispatching gifts and tribute to the court of Camelot — preferably ones that could be safely across the border before Rupert and his party would be required to leave the safe conduct of the Camelot knights accompanying him on the road home — in case they got lost, the King had said, or met any roaming sorcerers along the way.

The King and Queen themselves saw the party off, despite Rupert's heartfelt assurances that there was no need to bestir themselves so early. It was no trouble, though, the Queen insisted sweetly, and the royal pair stood on the castle steps as Rupert rode off in state, doing his best not to look nervously over his shoulder every second as he did.

When the party had cleared the courtyard, King Arthur muttered out of the side of his mouth, "Is that the last of them?"

"Almost," Gwen replied in the same manner.

A gangling squire, a youth no more than fourteen, who had obviously been misinformed about the hour of their departure, or perhaps simply bewildered by the early start, ran tripping and stumbling out of the castle, one side of his trousers half falling down as he went. He achieved the mounting of his horse by a combination of luck and patience on the part of the animal, who waited until the boy had righted himself from his original leaping sprawl and was, more or less, sitting upright, before cantering off after the rest of the delegation.

As the clatter of his horses' hooves faded from the cobblestones, Arthur's barely restrained smirk broke out into helpless snickering.

"You shouldn't laugh," Gwen said, although her smile showed definite signs of amusement as well. "He was clearly frightened out of his senses."

"Oh, he'll catch up with them all right," Arthur said, "with probably nothing more than boxed ears for being late."

"That's not who I meant and you know it," Gwen said, not very sternly. "Rupert looked like he expected the archers to open fire from the battlements the moment he was clear of the castle."

"I can't imagine why," Arthur said innocently. "We often have as many as a hundred archers lining the battlements. There's nothing peculiar about having a mere fifty stationed around the courtyard."

"Yes, but that's when the castle is under siege," Gwen pointed out. "You weren't actually expecting Rupert to attempt some kind of suicide manoeuvre on his way out the door, were you?"

"Of course not," Arthur agreed, "it was just a friendly gesture of goodwill."

"Like the hundred and fifty guards and the half dozen knights you sent along with him," Gwen added. "The poor man looked terrified. He thinks they're going to murder him along the road. Goodwill?"

"Exactly," said Arthur with a self-satisfied grin. "Exactly as much goodwill as he came here to show us. It seemed fitting, don't you agree?"

Gwen just sighed indulgently. "For what it's worth, I don't believe he had anything to do with... with the rest of what happened. He only saw a chance to try to renegotiate alliances to his own advantage, not to overthrow you. He wasn't expecting the assassination attempt. I believe Morgana about that, at least."

Arthur's amusement faded as she spoke, and he said, "I have half a mind to start this day with an execution."

"You _can't_ ," said Gwen, sounding appalled. "I promised her two days. And besides, she's your _sister_."

"I know." Arthur's voice was suddenly grim, the levity completely gone from his tone. "That only makes it worse."

"Could you really do it, though?" Gwen asked softly. "Even after everything — could you?"

"I don't see what other choice we have," Arthur replied. "Or what's to stop her from trying again? And again?"

Gwen laid a hand on his arm. The courtyard had slowly emptied of those few people come to see the party off — mostly grooms and stablehands who had left once their part was done — but a few lingered, going about their work, or simply getting a start on the tasks of the new day. They couple stood and watched the life of the castle stirring in the early morning.

"It can wait a little," Gwen suggested. "You've barely eaten anything yet, and we could get away from the castle for a little, go for a ride in the woods —"

"No," said Arthur, interrupting her but not unkindly. "No, it has to be now. Before I forget what all the last week has felt like."

* * *

Morgana had passed one of the worst nights of her life. She dreamed over and over of her own execution. Each time she felt certain the dream was a prophetic one, and woke expecting to find it was morning, and time to die. By the time she slept, and slept soundly, it was nearing day, and the first of the morning twilight crept in around her where she lay.

The room she had been moved to, after the events of the previous day made the King wish to keep her closer under his watchful eye, was a place as familiar to her as the back of her own hand. When someone brushed her hair back from her face and woke her with a gentle hand on her back, Morgana stirred and said, "Gwen?" out of long habit.

It wasn't until she was sitting and leaning groggily against Gwen's shoulder that she spotted Arthur standing behind her and knew that something was not right. She drew back hastily from Gwen's embrace, seeing now that it was not her maid, but the Queen of Camelot, come in to wake her. The clothes were different, that was all; the face and voice were the same.

"Couldn't you have waited until I was dressed, at least?" Morgana asked sharply, the fearful dreams of the night pressing themselves back into her consciousness.

"Do you really believe you deserve any consideration, now?" Arthur asked. He held back, hovering, as if unwilling to come too near Morgana, but unwilling to leave Gwen alone with her.

"If you're going to execute me anyway, I might at least ask for some dignity about it," Morgana said with a forced shrug. "Could you hand me that dressing gown?"

Arthur picked up the gown hanging nonchalantly over the back of a chair and tossed it to her while touching it as little as possible.

Morgana managed enough mirth to roll her eyes at him as she put it on. Then she got out of bed and walked over to the window to see if there were an executioner's block or a stake being readied. The courtyard was empty so far, although the sight alone did not entirely reassure her.

"You kept your word, Gwen, I'll give you that much," she said at last. "No one gets executed until after lunch, am I right? It does spoil the appetite so much — at least, it always did mine, Uther never seemed to mind it."

She looked at Arthur as she said it and was pleased to see him wince. Perhaps, if for no other reason, her life might be spared out of his distaste for the number of executions he had witnessed in his time as Crown Prince.

"If it makes any difference," Morgana went on, "I've always hated the sound of the axe falling — I know it's not as if I'd have time to dwell on it, in the circumstances, but I'd rather be burned if it's all the same to —"

"Stop it," said Gwen harshly. Her voice sounded rough, although her face showed no sign of tears. "We're not here to talk about killing you. Or to drag you out to your death."

"Yet," Arthur muttered under his breath, then fell silent at a look from Gwen.

Morgana refused to allow herself to hope.

"What do you mean to do with me then?" she asked. "I don't suppose you'd consider letting me go if I promise never to do anything naughty again?"

"If that's what you want..." Gwen said slowly. Arthur looked like he wanted to protest, but Gwen carried on regardless, "Have you thought about — about staying?"

Arthur gaped. "We can't — she's shown she can't be trusted — you want her living in the castle?"

Gwen bit her lip. "But if she can get in anyway, wouldn't it be better, to have her here, where we know — and I think it would be better—" she turned to Morgana and took her hand "—really, better, if you could see how things are now, and that Camelot _has_ changed for the better since you've been gone."

Morgana looked down at their fingers twisted together, her own lying limp and unresisting as Gwen's held tightly.

Morgana drew her hand back and smiled bitterly. "He's absolutely right, you know. You can't trust me. Who knows what enchantments I could perform? I might try to bring the castle down around your ears."

"But surely now that Morgause is gone—" Arthur started, and then stumbled to a halt. "You mean, but you — _you_ were never—" His face was a mask of astonishment.

Morgana blinked with surprise which she covered up as quickly as she could. "No, of course you wouldn't suspect a thing like that," Morgana said defensively. "How could you? Uther's son? Did you think all the sorcerers skulked around in the woods plotting to kill you? I never asked for magic," she added quietly, more to herself than anyone else.

"But you never told—" said Arthur.

"Did you expect me to sharpen the axe for you myself?" Morgana asked, with a pointed glance toward the courtyard.

Arthur was still staring at her, looking astounded and somewhat affronted, but Gwen was nodding along in understanding.

"But don't you see?" she asked Morgana. "Now that Uther's gone, now that it's us, it doesn't matter about all that. We don't care if you're a witch, or a sorceress, or an enchantress —"

"Don't we?" said Arthur in bewilderment. "Wait, do you mean it was _you_ who — with the disguise, and the sword, and, and—"

"We don't care," Gwen repeated firmly. "And so things could be different now. Couldn't they?"

Morgana's head was reeling. Whether it was more at Gwen's quiet certainty or at herself for blurting out what she had kept secret for so long — but then, she was sure, _had_ been sure that they must have figured it out by now. Or perhaps she had simply spent so long by Morgause's side, she had forgotten what it was like to conceal her true nature.

Arthur hadn't actually sent for the guards yet, which was something. Something, but not enough.

"I just want to be left alone," Morgana found herself saying wearily. Then she got a look at Gwen's wounded expression and added, "For now, anyway."

"Where would you go?" Gwen asked. "Not back to —"

"To Morgause?" Morgana finished. "I don't know. Maybe. There's nowhere else for me to go, really."

Arthur, who had been watching them contemplatively, stepped in now with, "What about your father's lands?"

Morgana stared at him. "My father was Uther," she said slowly. "His lands are — Camelot."

"Not Camelot," said Arthur deliberately, "Cornwall. Your father was Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. I see no reason why you should not lay claim to his lands now, so many years after his death."

Morgana couldn't decide whether he was being willfully stupid or genuinely so. She settled for raising an eyebrow at him, which seemed to cover all options."You know perfectly well that Uther was my father. He admitted as much on his death bed. Half the court of Camelot must know it by now."

"By laying claim to Gorlois' lands," Arthur carried on as if he had not heard her, "you acknowledge that you are his legitimate daughter, and that you therefore have no right to be considered Uther's child, or heir, or any member of the Pendragon family, and you relinquish all rights the Crown of Camelot. As everyone knows, my father was sadly prone to some fits of — confusion — near the end of his days. There is no doubt that you are Gorlois' daughter, or that my father considered you his child only in the purely adoptive sense. It would be best," he added, as Morgana blinked at him in genuine surprise, "if you put all of that in writing, for the royal archives."

Morgana nodded slowly, not sure of what to say. It would be denying her own lineage — but then, it was a lineage that she had loathed and despised ever since she learned of it. And did it matter, really, whether the lands she governed spanned an entire kingdom, so long as they were _hers_?

"I'm not paying you tribute," she told Arthur, "I don't care if it's traditional. You can ask for my help if you start any wars, and I'll _consider_ sending you aid, but you're not going to order me about, or get a lot of gifts and tokens from me just so you can tell everyone how magnificent you are."

Arthur laughed at that. "Are you really trying to negotiate with me about this?" he asked incredulously.

"Don't be ridiculous," Morgana said, "this was never a negotiation. I'm giving up my birthrights, you're getting peace. I think it's pretty clear who's getting the better deal out of this."

Gwen was biting her lip as she looked between the two of them. It looked like barely restrained amusement.

" _And_ you're going to abolish our father's — sorry, _your_ father's—" Morgana corrected herself "—ridiculous law about sorcery. And stop hunting down the druids. And —" she floundered for something further "— and you'll hire a court sorcerer to show the people that magic is nothing to be feared."

Morgana's heart was running away with her in sheer giddy terror at what she was asking, but she couldn't back down now. It was _right_ , and what's more, if Arthur didn't agree, it wouldn't matter if he let her go now, because he could always declare her a traitor someday in the future for using magic; she would still be living with the same fear.

"Is that all?" Arthur asked when she had finished. His eyebrows had crawled gradually up his forehead as she listed her demands but he was dragging them back down into place with visible effort. "Would you like a pony, as well?"

Morgana huffed. "Well, I will need _something_ to ride back to Cornwall on, assuming you've sent the horse I borrowed from Lady Lavinia back to Northumbria." Arthur folded his arms, and she added hastily, "But I'm sure you'll think of something appropriate."

"I'll make some arrangements," Arthur said, and turned to go. "Gwen?" he asked, when he reached the door and found himself alone.

"You go on," Gwen said, without taking her eyes off Morgana's face. "We have a lot more things to talk about, I think."

Arthur looked at the two of them, shrugged helplessly, and left them alone.

Gwen waited till he had gone, then pulled Morgana into her arms, despite her resistance, and simply held her until Morgana softened and hugged her back. Morgana breathed in the familiar scent of Gwen's hair — flowers, and something clean, like soap or clear water — and tried very hard not to cry with relief.

* * *

Gwaine's head hadn't stopped aching, and his breakfast sat uneasily in his stomach. It would, perhaps, have been better to try to find the kitchens, but he was afraid that if he tried to find his way around the castle he would bump into someone who despised him, since by now that must include most of the inhabitants. Besides, the food he had found tucked away in a cupboard in Gaius' old rooms had seemed palatable enough, although his digestion was now giving him second thoughts on the subject.

A shadow fell across the stain on the workbench he had been staring at disconsolately, startling him out of his reverie. He hadn't heard the creak of the door.

"If I changed the sign on the door" —it was Merlin's voice, far too bright and cheerful for the end of the world— "from 'Keep out, by order of the King' to, 'Please come in! We welcome test subjects for all our dangerous and experimental medicines!' do you think people would finally stop breaking in here?"

Gwaine tilted his chin up off the table enough to see the source of the voice. Merlin was smiling down at him, although there was a hint of a smirk in there as well.

"I heard you challenged Lancelot to a duel," Merlin said with no faint amusement.

"Ah, right," said Gwaine, to whom the amount of bruising on his backside and the stiffness of his arm muscles now made a great deal more sense. "I dare say I did, at that."

"At three in the morning," Merlin continued, "while drunk out of your mind."

Gwaine nodded regretfully. That, too, sounded entirely too plausible. And explained the first part of the note he had found himself drooling on when he awoke for the second time that day.

"Right after declaring your undying love to person or persons unknown, while standing under the window of the royal bedchambers," Merlin added. "I'm not sure whether it was Arthur or Gwen you were aiming for when you took off your shirt and flung it at their window, but I shouldn't think Arthur will be too pleased with you either way."

Gwaine groaned and returned his head to its former position on the table. Maybe if he pressed down hard enough, it would actually sink _through_ the table, and then the rest of him would have a leg up — so to speak — on passing the rest of the way through the floor.

"'sn't th'rght w'ndw," he muttered into the table.

"Ah, well that'll be a relief to Lancelot," Merlin said. "For some reason he seems to have taken sympathy to your amorous plight. He told me he thinks you're actually even more hopeless than he was about courting Gwen and, believe me, I saw how good he was at that. When things started going well for him, he actually _ran away_ in the middle of the night and disappeared from her life until she was married."

"So it would be fair to say they haven't been having much of a romance since then?" Gwaine asked without raising his head and feeling, if possible, even more miserably ashamed of his behaviour.

"Not as such, no," Merlin said cheerfully. "What I've been having trouble working out is how anyone could manage to do worse. In what part of your ale-soaked brain did you think that a midnight serenade was going to go well for you?"

"I thought perhaps it would give people something new to talk about," Gwaine told the table, "besides the fact that I'm now the most unpopular knight at Camelot. Only now they'll be talking about how I'm a love-stricken, drunken idiot... _and_ the most unpopular knight at Camelot."

Merlin sat down next to him and bumped their shoulders together. He had to do most of the work himself, since Gwaine was stationary. "Oh, come on. It can't be that bad, you're not unpopular with everyone."

"Name one person at Camelot who wouldn't prefer to see me face down in a ditch," Gwaine demanded.

Merlin nudged him again. "You're still popular with me. And there are _loads_ of people I don't like, so you know you're ahead of the running there."

Gwaine just shrugged, although he felt a little cheered by the thought despite himself.

"Go on, let's have a smile from you," Merlin said cajolingly. "I know you know how to do it."

Gwaine shook his head. His cheek scraped against the wood grain of the bench. "It's not that simple. It's just the latest in a long line of things that prove I had no business coming here in the first place. Camelot doesn't need a knight like me. It needs people like Lancelot, who have a kind of nobility that has nothing to do with who their parents were. If he could see me now, I have no doubt my father would be heartily ashamed of me."

"Don't say that," said Merlin quietly, sadly. "Just because things haven't been going the way you expected doesn't mean there's no place for you here. Not everyone has to be a Lancelot. Most people aren't, you know."

"I just don't know why I should even try," Gwaine said. "Nothing good ever comes of it. Everyone loves him the minute they meet him. With me, they can't wait to see the back of me. What hope do I have of happiness here?"

Merlin didn't answer that for a long time and Gwaine, curious, finally lifted his head properly to look at him. There was a strange look on Merlin's face that he couldn't place. Then Merlin stuck his chin out a little stubbornly, leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was just a light brush of lips, perfectly chaste and undemanding. Gwaine blinked in disbelief.

"What was that for?" he asked. A small part of his head told him that he was still asleep and dreaming this. A larger part of his head told him that, if he were dreaming, his head wouldn't be aching this much.

Merlin smiled faintly. "Now you can't say nothing good ever happens to you," he said.

His tongue darted out nervously to run across his lower lip as if tasting the kiss. It made something turn over in the pit of Gwaine's stomach — something he was fairly sure wasn't from his breakfast. No food ought to be able to make his insides flip themselves upside down like that. If it was something he'd eaten doing this, it was probably an early sign that he'd ingested poison and was slowly dying.

But if it wasn't — if it was nothing but the flick of Merlin's tongue across his lips, the way a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, that could make Gwaine's heart pound loudly in his ears and his blood rush down — well, Gwaine would still be doomed, just in a different way. Gwaine laughed, at himself as much as anything.

"One kiss is hardly enough to change the shape of a man's destiny, Merlin," he said seriously. It couldn't even banish his hangover, much as he'd like it too. It did, perhaps, just barely, give him a reason not to sink through the floor quite yet.

His chest felt lighter than it had all day — not that _that_ was saying much, but it was better than he'd felt in a long time, really. Since he'd arrived at Camelot, or even before. When _had_ he last felt like this? When he'd woken up to find Merlin grinning down at him, improbably, at some remote inn at the edge of civilization, telling him to pack up his things and head back to Camelot? He'd been hungover then too, come to think of it.

"How about a lot of kisses?" Merlin asked. "Do you think that could be destiny-changing enough?"

"Aye, that might do the trick," Gwaine said agreeably. At the very least, Merlin might turn out to be an effective cure for headaches. A little harmless experimentation in the name of medical research couldn't be a bad thing.

"I'll see what I can do, then," Merlin promised. "It could take a while though. You'd have to stick around, spend a few more months at Camelot."

"Oh, at the very least," said Gwaine solemnly. "I wouldn't want to rush your work, my friend."

Merlin nodded with equal solemnity. "It's a tricky thing, destiny. There's just no forcing it."

* * *

"Well, thank god that's over," said Arthur, slumping back into a chair in his rooms a few nights later. Morgana was gone — at last — for now — and Arthur was relishing the peace and quiet. The relative peace and quiet, at least. The royal chambers seemed to be undergoing a gradual invasion as Merlin, for reasons passing Arthur's understanding, had started bringing Gwaine with him everywhere and Gwaine, in turn, for reasons equally unknowable, had suddenly formed a fond and firm friendship with Lancelot that seemingly necessitated _his_ presence as well.

It wasn't that Arthur hadn't _tried_ to throw them out — well, to _hint_ that the royal chambers were best left to King and Queen alone — but Merlin and Gwaine had been willfully oblivious to the suggestion and when Lancelot, whose politeness was unimpeachable, had maded his apologies and tried to leave, Merlin's lower lip had positively _wobbled_ and Guinevere had _sighed_ and that, it seemed, was that. Arthur would never be alone with his wife again.

Not that it was all bad. At least now when Guinevere and Merlin retreated into a seat by the window to giggle together, Arthur had someone left to talk to, or challenge to a quiet game of chess. Moreover it seemed that Lancelot, to Gwaine and Arthur's shared delight, was terrible at chess. There was something infinitely satisfying about proving your intellectual prowess against a man who had tossed you, not once, but twice, into the mud during sword practice that day.

The chess board was currently set up on a small, round table by the fire in Arthur's rooms. The table was a doubly belated wedding gift from Merlin, who had somehow managed to come up with a replacement for his original gift amid the furious activity of the preceding days. Arthur didn't know how he had managed it. It was remarkably similar to the original enormous one, almost a perfect scale model, in fact, just large enough for the five of them to sit around if they didn't mind bumping knees.

When Arthur asked Merlin why he couldn't get one in an ordinary, useful size, Merlin said, "I think it's the right size for now. It'll be bigger when there are more people to sit around it," which didn't make any sense, but Arthur tried not to let that sort of thing bother him where Merlin was concerned.

Tonight they had all gathered round it to watch Gwaine further Lancelot's strategic education. Arthur had chosen his place nearest the hearth, not because he needed the warmth on this mild night, but because Guinevere was already perched against the chair's arm, and sank a little closer into his side every time she yawned with a small, sleepy sigh.

On the chess board, Lancelot moved a pawn, clearly having forgotten that it was guarding one of his bishops. Gwaine did his best to suppress a crow of triumph as he swooped in for the kill.

"It has been a little busy," Guinevere agreed with him through another yawn, "even for Camelot."

"At least it's done, which means we must be in for some quiet now. I don't think I could stand any more surprises this week," said Arthur. "Is there _any_ way of stopping people sneaking into the castle in disguise? It seems like we should be able to do _something_ to stop it."

"Ah, about that, sire," said Lancelot, staring with more than usual concentration at the chess board where his forces were rapidly dwindling to nothing. "There is someone who I recently learned has come to Camelot under an assumed name — although not with any ill intent. I believe she would be most suited to join the knights of Camelot."

Arthur sighed. "As long as _I_ know who it is — hang on, did you say _she_? No, it doesn't matter," he added hastily, as Guinevere drew back to look at him sharply, "I just wondered if there was anything more to your connection with her than you were telling us." He searched Lancelot's face for any sign of a blush, but as they were all sitting so near the fire, it was hard to be certain.

"Fine, bring her to the open trials tomorrow," Arthur said at last. "We'll see what she's made of. I wish it were that easy finding a court sorcerer. Even if they weren't afraid to come here for the job, how am I supposed to know which ones to trust, or that any one isn't harbouring a grudge against me for my father's sake?"

There was a cough and sudden silence from everyone around him, except for Gwaine, who cheerfully knocked over Lancelot's king before noticing the hush as well.

"Arthur, Merlin has something he'd like to tell you," said Guinevere. From the way Merlin was wincing, Arthur presumed she was standing on his foot somewhere under the table.

"You know, like Arthur was saying, it's been a _really_ busy week, I don't think we need any more..." Merlin trailed off under the combined stares of the rest.

"All right," Merlin said, "but remember you _asked_ about this..."

From all the way down in the silent courtyard and beyond the castle walls, the quiet of the night was broken by an indignant cry:

 _  
**"MERLIN!!!!!"**   
_


End file.
